Speculum Enigmate
by Mattwho81
Summary: Sent on a diplomatic mission a small band of Storm Heralds must navigate a perilous web of deceit and treachery. Surrounded on all sides by hidden enemies and alien menaces the stranded band of warriors must learn to see their enemy clearly before it is too late. This story is a sequel to my previous story Diem Infamia.
1. Chapter 1

**Storm Heralds Reading List**

**Book1 **_Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Vacuus Cymba, Noctem Oritur._

**Book2 **_Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Saeva Abyssi._

**Book3**_, Captum Ante, Veneum Filios, Locum Ignotum, Domus Discordia._

**Book4**_ Cincere Tempestus, Ignis in Vacui, Indomitus Bellum, Falsa Verum, Redemptio Opus, Diem Infamia._

**Book5**_ Speculum Enigmate._

_Extract from imperial Crusades of the new age: Vol I_

_Following the Great Refusal at Tectum the Indomitus Crusade entered a brief period of rest and respite. This was not by choice; the damage to the crusade had been so extensive that it was impossible for the fleets and armies to proceed without replenishment. Much has been written of the Living Primarch's logistical genius, rebuilding his forces in months where a lesser man would have taken years, if not decades. Though most Historitors are sparse on the details and conveniently ignore the plethora of records and memoirs that lament the strip-mining of local garrisons and the catastrophic effects that emergency tithes had on worlds in the Saint Karyl Trail._

_The Indomitus Crusade's enforced period of rest was a calamity for those worlds still crying out for succour and the private journals of many a high-ranking Crusade officer stored in the Hub-Fortresses of the Officio Logisticarum document how it chafed the Lord Regent to be inactive, even for a brief period. The scale of the threat was obvious to all; not only did the foul minions of Chaos roam free but rebellion, Heresy and Xeno horrors abounded in the Age of Darkness. With the vigilant eye of Terra drawn away alien races were given the freedom to rampage as they will. Orks, K'nib, Talesterian, Tyranid, Eldar, Psybrid, Enslavers, H'rud, Necron, Tau and many more nightmares were able to challenge the dominance of Man and run amok within the Emperor's demesnes. Terrible was the toll in blood required to deny these incursions, sacrifices the beleaguered Imperium was ill-able to afford._

_Most of the commonly available texts on the Crusade tend to focus on the large-set piece battles, where tens of thousands of Primaris Marines deployed to scour whole worlds bare. The Battle of Catachan, the Cleansing of Galathamor, the Liberation of Ophelia VII, the Scourging of Gloriphia, the Deliverance of Rynn's World, the Subjugation of the Lhorm Reaches, each a byword for blood-soaked victories and desperate struggles against impossible odds. Yet few Historitors take the time to document the millions of smaller actions that paved the way for these grand conquests. For every glorious triumph there were a hundred covert missions, smaller deployments and missions to far-flung outposts and remote worlds. Far more planets than can be counted only remain under the benevolent aegis of the Golden Throne thanks to the actions of a handful of Space Marines._

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 1**

The music was so beautiful that it made Manaar weep, a haunting refrain that plucked at the strings of the heart and stirred the soul. The harp chords weaved magic all their own, carrying the audience to heights of joy and depths of sorrow. The music took the listener on a journey into the distant past, to a time when beauty and grace had ruled the stars, rather than superstition and ignorance. To hear that refrain was to be carried into an age where wise councillors and lords of vision had shaped the galaxy to their will and it appeared the age of peace and plenty would never end. It seemed impossible that string and wood could produce such beauty, that mere hands could draw forth the essence of another age, but it was so. With a perfect harmony of skill and passion the musician had brought forth a vision of the past, before the birth of She Who Thirsts, before the Eldar Fell.

Manaar was sitting on a grassy knoll, a small hillock that rose gracefully among the rolling countryside. He was lean and tall as all his kind were, yet unlike most Eldar his limbs were corded with dense muscle, the product of intense physical training. His face was grim, with a serious cast to his features that on any other day would have made seem as if he never laughed or cried. He was dressed in woven sandals and his Spirit Stone was bound by a short necklace. A grey toga hung over one shoulder, marked with red and black dashes and an emblem of a black triangle with many short bars. He sat alone on the hillock, for no other would sit near him, few were brave enough to dwell near one who had given themselves to the exploration of their most violent and wild emotions. One who walked the Path of the Aspect Warriors as a Warp Spider.

From where he was sitting Manaar could see the land spreading in all directions, lit by a radiant glow that owed nothing to sunlight. He was sitting in a seemingly natural amphitheatre formed by the landscape, one that had actually been deliberately shaped millennia before. The land was pleasant and comforting, designed to welcome the visitor with an agrarian utopia. Here could be found animals and plants that existed nowhere else in the galaxy, species whose worlds had burned in the collapse of the Eldar Empire and had been carefully husbanded for millennia since. Dotted across the bowl in the hills were numerous Eldar, listening to the melody with rapt attention while the Spirits of the ancestors swirled through the Infinity Circuit nearby, drawn to the rising emotions of their descendants. It was a recreation of a time long gone, when the Eldar had bestrode the stars as gods. The vision was only spoiled by the distant walls of Wraithbone, which rose into a high dome stretching over the land, through which could be seen the flicker of distant stars. For this was one of the many domes that covered Craftworld Furta-Rith, one of the few surviving safe harbours for the Eldar race.

The music came to its end with a short crescendo, filling the amphitheatre with triumphant notes then fading away to nothing. The crowd were not so boorish as to clap and cheer, their sensibilities were more refined than any crude Mon-Keigh's. Their approval came in slight nods and hand-gestures of appreciation, a ringing endorsement for those who could grasp Eldar speech. The harpist accepted this praise with a graceful bow in the style used in the high courts before the Fall, signalling the presentation was over.

Manaar stood up and brushed off his toga, then began making is way to the centre of the amphitheatre. The crowd parted before him, everybody making way for him to pass. Furta-Rith was not a Craftworld that embraced the Path of the Aspect Warrior gladly; their speciality was Seers. They as a people were dedicated to preserving the last remnants of a more civilised age so few wanted to be reminded of the violent urges that had brought it crashing down. It was seen as a burden to become an Aspect Warrior, a way to excise their aggressive tendencies and deepest anguish so most avoided drawing his eye. It was a foolish taboo, without his armour and rituals Manaar could not access his most ferocious emotions, all his training revolved around donning his violent nature like a war-mask and then taking it off again. Only those who had once been an Aspect Warrior could understand this dichotomy and Manaar easily marked those who had left the Path by their knowing eyes and sympathetic gazes. Manaar ignored these pitying looks; his pain was not for others to know.

With the crowd making way Manaar soon approached the musician but when he reached her he hesitated. The artist was thin and haggard, her body made frail by countless hours attending to her art. Her skin was blemished and her once golden hair was lank and flat. She looked like she had barely eaten and hadn't slept in days, consumed by the need to perfect her art. Manaar understood that creative urge all too well, he had once walked the Path of the Artist and felt that compulsion to express himself. It had been like a hot coal in his mind, the art dwelling within him crying out to be born, needing to leap free. It had been a passion that gripped him tightly, until he recognised he was becoming lost within his art and had left the Path before it claimed him heart and soul. This artist had been on the Path alongside him but she had not recognised the danger in time. She was lost to her music, trapped forever into one aspect of her being. She could never walk another Path, never learn a new skill, she was an Exarch of Music.

Manaar waited long moments for her to notice him, but the artist was collecting her instruments and did not see him. Manaar coughed politely to draw her notice but she seemed oblivious to his presence so reluctantly he stated, "May I speak to you. I'lreaye, can you hear me? I'lreaye, I am here… Mother!"

This last outburst shocked the artist and she blinked rapidly before turning to him saying, "Yes, who is there?"

Manaar saw the lost look in her eye and knew even now her mind dwelled on her music. Hopefully he said, "It is I mother: Manaar."

I'lreaye replied briskly, "Yes I know that. Manaar, my son, I am not blind."

Manaar knew her attention would be hard to hold so hurriedly said, "Mother, I hoped we could talk. Perhaps we could spend an evening together."

"We…" I'lreaye stammered nervously, "I suppose I could… I could… when I finish my next piece. I have an idea for a new composition."

Manaar knew her mind was already drifting back to her music; she was incapable of thinking of anything else. Sadly he said, "Mother, cannot we simply be parent and child for one day?"

I'lreaye sounded pained as she whined, "Manaar you don't understand. The composition deals with the heavenly movement of the spheres rendered into acoustic form. When it is done we can… when it is done…"

Manaar felt a stab of sorrow as he beheld her pain. I'lreaye was trapped in her aspect, unable to break free. Thinking of anything else caused her pain, the war within her tore at her spirit. She needed to compose and perform, it was a compulsion that drove her night and day. It had been this very flaw in the Eldar psyche that had destroyed their ancient empire and it still lay in the hearts of his race, a snare waiting upon every Path. Her obsession with music held her tight, yet the bonds of family tried to pull her away. Simply being around Manaar caused her anguish, his very presence was a knife unto her heart. Manaar caused her pain by speaking to her and that was a heartache to his own spirit, a sorrow he could only express through the violent life of an Aspect Warrior.

Sadly Manaar said, "That piece was beautiful."

I'lreaye smiled for the first time as she said, "I recovered it from the oldest records in the archives. It hasn't been played aloud since before the Fall."

Manaar nodded along as he lied, "I look forward to your next performance."

I'lreaye's eyes drifted to her instruments as she said, "I… I need to go. I need to compose."

"Go," Manaar sighed, "I will see you again soon."

I'lreaye couldn't wait to collect her instruments and depart, not even glancing back at her son as she fled. Manaar knew she would be heading straight back to her studios, to compose and practice. Likely she would forget he existed until the next time he forced himself into her way. The pain of loss bit hard, he wanted to don his war-mask, to sink into his violent aspect and his hands longed for their weapons so he could vent his torment in a storm of aggression. He swore to dedicate himself to the Warp Spiders and not depart their Shrine again, but he knew it was a false promise; it was one he had made and broken many times over.

He was startled when a joyful voice proclaimed, "What's this, an Aspect Warrior without his armour?"

Manaar spun about to find a friendly face looking at him and he cried, "Joru'l!"

Joru'l smiled broadly as he replied, "Yes, tis I."

The pair of them embraced in the warmest of fashions, touching hands in the ritual patterns of Old Friends Greeting. Joru'l was a childhood friend, one who had shared many a prepubescent adventure in the domes and domiciles of the Craftworld. They had run and played and fought as children do, laughing freely and experiencing the rush of youth, before the strict life of the Path had claimed them. Then they had separated, Manaar had chosen wilder roads to walk: Starfarer, Pilot, Artist and finally Aspect Warrior. Joru'l had chosen more sedate Paths: Farmer, Shaper, Healer and currently the life of the Servant. Yet they counted each other dear friends.

Joru'l looked him up and down and said, "What brings you out of your shrine?"

Manaar nodded at the stage and said, "I thought to speak to my mother."

Joru'l sighed, "You keep doing this to yourself. You would be well counselled to stay away. Embrace your life as an Aspect Warrior, you will never find satisfaction while you try to walk two paths."

Manaar looked down and said, "How can I abandon my mother?"

Joru'l lamented, "Deep are the passions of our race. That is why we need the Paths, to constrain our emotions and hone them. Take me for instance, I find satisfaction and purpose in the service of others. Helping and providing for another is a meaningful existence."

Manaar shook his head and explained, "I have never been content with such things. I need to feel the extremes of passion, to express my pain through action."

"It has always been your way," Joru'l concurred, "Yet there is pointless action and there is purposeful action."

Manaar's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he accused, "Why do I suspect this is no random encounter?"

Joru'l smiled knowingly as he affirmed, "You know me well. Yes, today I have been charged with delivering a message: from your father."

Manaar's good mood evaporated as he growled, "If the Council of Farseers has a request they can approach the Exarchs formally."

Joru'l sighed, "This is not an official mission, your father needs you to do something. There is a divergence in the Skein, he needs you to travel to a Mon-Keigh world and…"

Manaar cut him off snarling, "I don't care what he wants; he can find someone else to be his pawn."

Joru'l was taken aback and stated, "You cannot refuse this missive."

But Manaar turned his back and strode off, spitting over his shoulder, "Tell my father if he wants something from me he can come and ask me himself!" And with that he stormed away, leaving the amphitheatre behind as he returned to his Shrine, determined to seal himself inside and not come out again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 2**

_*Planet Lujan II*_

The sun burned fiercely upon the Fortress-Monastery of the Storm Heralds atop its lonely island. The slowly turning world was barely half-way through its rotation and it would be several more Terran days until the sunset brought the Emperor's Storm. Until that hallowed moment there was work to be done. Teams of serfs laboured in the sweltering heat, tending to the innumerable duties required to support a Space Marine Chapter. Firing ranges were diligently cleared of spent bolt rounds, Thunderhawk bays rang with clanking machinery, training parks were diligently ploughed clear of smoking craters and the gold-plated footsteps of the Primarch's Walk were polished with reverence. Such was a regular day in the Fortress-Monastery but not all was as it had once been.

Amongst the narrow boulevards between buildings, where Astartes had marched for millennia, strode a new breed of warrior. They were taller and broader, with new models of armour and weapons: the Primaris Marines. The new paradigm of Space Marine had been brought to the Storm Heralds a mere month earlier and their presence rankled many. Thunderhawks now sat side by side with Overlord gunships, Predator tanks rolled to the training grounds next to floating Repulsor tanks and Astartes who had served for centuries found themselves ranked next to warriors who had been dragged out of stasis tubes mere weeks before. It was a jarring change for a Chapter that had stood for five Millennia and in the Scout-Barracks it was no different.

In a cold and bare hall ringed by high balconies scores of aspirants stood in a row, looking nervous with their short shrifts and shaven heads. They were young; none of them more than a year or two into puberty and their fear was plain. Yet these youths had passed the Chapter' trails, the tests of courage, fortitude and skill held on the various islands around the planet. They were the future of the Chapter, at least those who would survive the coming gene-seed implantations, deadly challenges and gruelling training regime. Currently they were under the stern gaze of Tenth Captain Nimodes and Chaplain Furion, the most senior spiritual guide in the Chapter. The aspirants were filing towards a large jar, within which were placed white and black stones. Each one reached in and took one at random, then they separated into two groups. Those who took white outnumbered those who took black three-to-one and all the youths looked mystified as to what this meant.

Watching from high above stood the Captains and Masters of the Chapter. All of them, a rarity since most Astartes spent their days at war. There was bold Hakulo of the Fourth, Jemiel the new First Captain, Phalros the Pure, cunning Cyvo of the Second and Toran of the Third, wielder of the Sword of Thiel, along with several more. Standing some way back from the Third Captain was his Command Squad, Champion Novak, Apothecary Memnos, Ancient Smyth, Librarian Arvael and of course Brothers Jediah and Persion.

Persion was watching the proceedings and tried to stifle a yawn. He was a mature Marine, with the pale features common to those born to the secondary recruiting world of Trux. His armour was fitted with an expanded vox-pack and at his side hung a Friction-axe. One arm was an augmetic replacement and his plate bore many campaign badges and laurels of victory. Persion was a veteran Marine, who had fought the enemies of mankind for several times the lives of mortals, but he had never seen this before.

Below the balconies the selection process had ended and Chaplain Furion addressed them with words of duty, sacrifice and selfless service. Persion didn't pay much attention, he'd heard it all before, so wondered how the recruits would cope with the changes to their training. A quarter of the aspirants, those who had drawn black balls, would be inducted into the new Primaris paradigm. They would be the first Primaris the Storm Heralds produced and if they proved successful they would be the first of many. The Chapter was slowly adopting the new models brought by the Primarch Roboute Guilliman, a change as inevitable as it was daunting. Persion was confronted by the possibility that he was an obsolete model of Transhuman, soon to be supplanted by a faster and stronger type.

Below the lines of Aspirants trudged out, led by Nimodes and the various Captains swiftly departed, taking their entourages with them. Persion shook his head and said, "I don't like this."

Ancient Smyth, himself a Primaris born of Terra, replied, "Those aspirants will fare well."

Persion sighed, "I'm sure they will but it rankles. Five millennia have we practised our recruitment, change seems wrong."

Librarian Arvael sighed, "Alas, change is coming whether we wish it or not. This is the will of the Imperial Regent and so the will of Him on Terra."

Persion glanced at him and asked, "Are you saying we should simply shut up and get on with it?"

Arvael grinned as he remarked, "Your eloquence is astounding. I shall miss your sharp tongue."

Persion blinked as he queried, "You're going somewhere?"

Arvael nodded as he informed them, "Yes, there is a Librarius Conclave gathering. All the Chapters present in the Crusade are sending envoys and I shall accompany Chief Librarian Echeb. With fair warp tides we shouldn't be away for more than a month or two."

"Have fun debating old books with fussy greybeards," Novak quipped, "Meanwhile I shall be winning glory for the Third."

Persion glanced at him and probed, "How will you be winning glory when the Third is only going on training exercises?"

Novak's burnt face beamed as he proclaimed, "You're taking the Third to train, I am competing for the honour of the Chapter Champion. The Fortress-Monastery is to host a Feast of Blades, thirty Chapters are competing and I intend to take the Storm Heralds to victory."

Persion blinked in surprise, he was usually the first to know new information, and he said, "Novak, I know you're good with a blade, but are you that good?"

Novak smirked confidently as he declared, "There's no upstart Crusader who can beat me with a sword."

Persion thought he was being cocky but said, "I trust the Emperor will smile upon you. I shall be thinking of you as we slog through training exercises."

Their conversation was interrupted as Captain Toran interrupted, "Actually you won't be with us."

Everybody turned and Persion inquired, "Captain, something amiss?"

Toran looked the Command Squad over with his augemtic eye and said, "I need to speak to Persion and Jediah alone. The rest of you are dismissed."

At the Captain's order the party broke up, each heading out to their own destinations. Persion watched them go and realised for the first time in years the Third Company would be splitting up. It was strange for a Battle Company, yet the calls of duty were many and a Space Marine never knew where he would be heading next. Persion took a moment to examine those left behind. Captain Toran was a respectable officer, Persion  
had known the Marine since he was a raw rookie and had watched him grow into command. Persion had great admiration for Toran's intelligence, his dedication to honour and his knack of forging alliances. Jediah on the other hand could not have been more different, a bloodthirsty warrior who relished killing for its own sake. His armour bore numerous kill markings and his face was badly scarred by knife wounds. Jediah had gained a fearsome reputation, not least for once besting five Astartes, a feat he adamantly refused to explain to anyone. Persion had fought for decades alongside the warrior and still didn't feel comfortable with his eagerness to spill blood nor with the predatory gleam in his dark eyes. Somedays Persion was certain that had Jediah not been swept up by the Chapter he would have become a serial killer.

Toran waited for the balcony to clear then said aloud, "Brothers, this is a time of great changes."

Persion was bemused by the non-sequitur and replied, "Yes, the arrival of Roboute Guilliman has thrown everything into flux. Yet to see him fight was an experience never to be forgotten."

That was an understatement; they had stood on the bridge of a starship and watched their Primarch wage war, then followed him into the face of Chaos itself. It almost made up for the fact that their first encounter had seen the Primarch try to disband the Storm Heralds entirely. Toran had even been privileged enough to talk to him, a fact attested to by six gold studs on his left wrist. Persion hadn't been so blessed, but it was an honour merely to stand in the same room as the Imperial Regent.

Jediah cut straight to the point as always, "What's he doing now?"

Toran explained, "The Imperial Regent has departed for Crux Lapis, to inform the Tech-Priests they will be contributing to the restoration of the Indomitus Crusade. Then rumour has it he intends to make a state visit to Sucaris, to tour the Dreaming Spires of scholarship and lecture the Provosts regarding his academic reforms."

Persion muttered suspiciously, "Sounds easy enough, so where do we come in?"

Toran sighed, "All is not well in the Saint Karyl Trail. The Lord Regent's Emergency Tithes have not been accepted without quarrel. Many Planetary Governors are protesting the exorbitant demands he places upon them. The Indomitus Crusade must be restored, but the resources required will leave many worlds in poverty."

"So what?" Jediah snorted, "Send a Battlebarge to the resisting planets and if the Governors don't get the point start levelling cities until they do."

That was typical of Jediah's attitude but Toran sighed, "That has proposal been raised, but the Lord Guilliman disapproves of such heavy-handed methods. He insists we be 'Diplomatic'."

Persion sensed a lead and ventured, "Is that where the Third comes in?"

"Partially," Toran replied, "The bulk of the Company must train, our new Primaris Brothers must be integrated properly. One battle is not enough to smooth over the cracks in our Brotherhood. Yet we have been ordered to send an envoy to support the Administratum's negotiations. Each Company has been assigned a troublesome planet; the Third is required to send a delegation to Pascum."

"Pascum?" Persion mused, "Never been there myself, but it's an old world, one that predates the Imperium. It lies near to Sucaris and is famed for the quality of its Flesh-Markets."

"Well remembered," Toran said, "The Bassail dynasty has ruled Pascum in an unbroken line for three millennia. They are staunchly pro-Imperial and gift unto the Storm Heralds a hundred gun-servitors a year as a gesture of trust. It is hard to imagine a more loyal Governor, but Aleys Bassail is dragging her heels paying the emergency tithes. She cities internal unrest and protest marches among the populace, she pleads for assistance to quell the discontent."

Persion frowned as he said, "So… we're not going there to depose her but to prop up her rule?"

Toran nodded as he explained, "A show to remind the people of their duty to the Golden Throne. Three squads should be more than enough. Take Yones' Intercessors and Zeax's Devastators and Gortam's Reivers."

Three squads were overkill, Persion thought, cities had fallen to less, yet he questioned, "The Reivers?"

Toran elaborated, "They are struggling to acclimatise to our philosophies. They insist on following their own course and tactical doctrines, they need to learn how we Storm Heralds operate."

Jediah scoffed, "You mean they pissed you off one time too many and you want them out of your hair for a few weeks."

"I didn't say that," Toran stated with a grin that told them it was exactly what he meant, "Try not to throw them out an airlock."

Persion accepted this yet there was one burning question, "So… who will command this expedition?"

Toran smiled broadly as he said, "You will and Jediah will be your second."

Persion spluttered in shock, "I will?!"

Toran looked pleased with himself as he said, "Yes, there have been more reforms. The Primarch has published his latest revisions to the Codex Imperialis and seen fit to allow Astartes to become Lieutenants, as well as Primaris Marines. Thus I am proud to bestow upon you both the rank of Lieutenant."

Persion's jaw dropped and he exclaimed, "You're promoting us?! Both of us?"

Toran grinned as he said, "The Chapter Master has agreed to a brevet promotion, to test the concept in the field. If you do well formal ceremonies will confer the rank permanently, but for now let me say congratulations."

Persion was flabbergasted and glanced at Jediah who looked thoughtful at the news. Persion's head was swimming and he spluttered, "But… but I'm Truxian."

Toran scoffed, "That has never mattered to me. Captain Hakulo hails from Trux and none doubt his fervour. But be warned don't think this makes you better than everybody else. You must learn that a leader must listen to his men if he wishes to succeed."

Jediah commented, "At least Smyth doesn't outrank us anymore, that never felt right."

Persion could hardly believe his ears and squawked, "But I don't know anything about command."

Toran calmly reassured him, "You will learn, I trust you to rise to the occasion. I have every confidence in you both."

Persion fought to get his head around the idea and whispered, "I… I always dreamt of becoming an officer but I'd lost hope it would happen. I don't know what to say."

Toran slapped him on the pauldron and said, "Try saying thank you!"

Persion blinked in surprise then stated, "Thank you, I swear to live up to the trust you show in me."

Jediah merely nodded briskly and said, "We won't let you down."

Toran looked them both over and said, "I know you won't, I look forward to seeing your triumphant return. Now go forth Lieutenants and do the Storm Heralds proud, there's a Gladius-class frigate in orbit waiting for you. Collect your squads and read your mission briefings, then depart in twelve hours."

Persion made the sign of the Aquila and left as ordered. His head was swimming as he walked away; he was now an officer with his own command. It was everything he had ever wanted, since before Toran was born. Elation bubbled in his hearts but it was tempered by the weight of authority laid upon him. He'd never had to take responsibility for a whole mission before, never had the lives of his Brothers entrusted to him and known they were all looking to him for leadership. A sliver of doubt settled in his hearts as he wondered if he was up to the challenge and a tiny voice in the back of his head wondered if this was a good idea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 3**

Genic codes swam before his eyes, beautiful and enticing in their infinite complexity. The smallest strands of biological material laid out like words in a book, their genius apparent to any with the eyes to see. He marvelled at the craftsmanship in every line, the superior workmanship taking his breath away. It inspired him almost as much as it shamed him.

Apothecary Memnos sat back from his electron-microscope and rubbed his weary eyes. The healer was a scarred warrior, who had seen too many of his kin die in forgotten wars. He was currently sitting in a small Laboritorum, deep within the Fortress-Monastery, where he could work alone. His eyes were haunted by loss, as most of his order's were, yet his held a special sorrow, his crimes hanging upon him. Memnos' white armour was marred by plasteel links bonded to the gauntlets and vambraces. The links wound around his arms in a permanent display of public disgrace and none could look upon him and not recognise the Chains of Shame. Memnos wore them night and day, he would not be parted from them. He knew he deserved far worse.

Memnos picked up a small glassic slide and exchanged it for the sample in the electron-microscope. He stared as the Gene-seed was exposed, revealing its secrets. Memnos had been doing this for days, examining sample after sample of the Primaris strain. It amazed him as much as it offended him. The new Transhumans were indeed superior, the working of the Magos Belisarius Cawl was beyond anything he had seen before. Memnos had scoured the samples looking for flaws, seeking the spoor of mutation, corruption and Heresy but found nothing. The Primaris were stable, more stable than conventional Gene-seed, more stable than anything he had managed to make.

That thought made Memnos grimace. He too had once sought to improve the Gene-seed, trying to create Visionary Marines with prognostic capabilities. The whole order of Apothecaries had been involved in trying to produce the Storm Herald's gene-flaw on command. All they had got for their efforts were failures and thousands of dead Neophytes. The boys had died pleading and weeping on the cold slabs, betrayed and tortured by those they had looked up to, those who should have cared for them. The Apothecaries had been entrusted with a duty to protect and heal their Brothers, even the youngest Aspirant, but instead had conducted the sickest experiments imaginable. They had betrayed the Brotherhood of the Chapter and Memnos would never forgive himself.

Memnos had been part of it, he had closed his eyes to the pain he inflicted and shut his ears to the pleading for it to stop. Until that delusion had been shattered for him. Now when he closed his eyes all he could see were their faces and his ears rang with whispers of his victims. Guilt gnawed at him night and day so his Chains of Shame bore the names of his victims, all of them. Memnos suddenly realised his right hand had unsealed the back of his left Vambrace, exposing the undersheath and skin beneath. His arm was laced with many scars, matching his chains, signs of deep and repeated cutting. Memnos grimly picked up a scalpel and placed it to the marks, drawing his shame into his flesh with a line of blood. The pain was sharp and deep, yet he persisted. His guilt needed to be visible; he needed everybody to see his shame. The only salve for his conscience was his oath to ensure his crimes were never repeated, not by him or by anyone else. So he cut himself, to ensure all witnessed the consequences of his crimes. It was the least he owed to his victims.

Suddenly Memnos realised he was not alone and his head snapped around to behold a warrior standing at his door. The Space Marine wore Storm Herald blue but his plate was festooned with gold adornments and he carried a power axe in hand while his faceplate was covered by Golden eagle wings. His rank was obvious at a glance, the glory of his armour making his position unmistakable, an Honour Guard, one of the bodyguards of the Chapter Master.

Memnos knew the Honour Guard was staring at his scarification but he refused to be embarrassed, it was not possible that anyone thought less of the Apothecary than he did of himself. Carefully Memnos set down his scalpel and then asked, "Can I help you, Brother…"

The Honour Guard didn't bother telling the Apothecary his name, the warrior order sacrificed their identities when they donned the eagle masks, instead he said, "Your presence is required in the Chapter Master's chambers."

Memnos sighed wearily at the summons and began refitting his vambrace. The Honour Guard stood silently as he locked the seals then stood aside to let the Apothecary walk by. Together the pair began to walk across the Fortress-Monastery, heading through the web of underground passages and passing various serfs as they marched in silence. Memnos did not waste time wondering for what purpose he had been summoned, he would find out when he got there. After nearly half an hour they rose up a short ramp and emerged at the foot of a small minaret. This was the Chapter Master's private abode, his personal quarters, command centre and armoury. The previous Chapter Master's home had been demolished in the invasion of the Chaos Lord Vorshaan and the late Gorgall had left it in rubble as a gesture of solidarity with his humbled Brethren. Chapter Master Phalros was above such concerns and had promptly ordered a new tower constructed.

Memnos entered through a wide door and was directed to enter a grav-lift. The esoteric device whooshed him up the interior and he expected to be taken to the top, where the Chapter Master dwelled. To his surprise the Grav-lift disgorged him halfway up and he emerged into a plain corridor, functional and bare in its stark nature. He walked along this corridor, his curiosity growing as he heard voices ahead. He pushed open a wooden door and found himself stepping into a bare room, lacking in any glorious murals or precious relics. To one accustomed to the weight of gilt and macabre adornments typical of Imperial architecture that screamed this was not an official gathering. Memnos instantly concluded this was a clandestine meeting and no record would ever be made of the words spoken within.

The Apothecary beheld three Marines within, wearing their power armour as they stood in the featureless room. The first was the unmistakable visage of Chapter Master Phalros, his senatorial features cast in a stern glower. The next had the haunted eyes and bedevilled expression of Chief Librarian Echeb, the Spirit of the Storm. His armour was marked with lightning bolts and twin-tailed comets and he bore a staff with an astrolabe set atop it. The last was taller than anyone else and wearing Gravis Armour. His face was only vaguely familiar to Memnos, with the haughty features of a Terran born. This was First Captain Jemiel, the Primaris Marine who had been gifted the second-highest rank in the Chapter at the Lord Guilliman's direct order. He was a stranger here, an unknown element save that he was the Lord Regent's eyes and ears within the Storm Heralds, a watchdog left to make sure they complied with the new doctrines.

The three paused their conversation as Memnos entered and bowed to his Lord and Master. Phalros greeted him solemnly, "Apothecary, join us and close the door. This chamber is warded against all observation, rest assured what is said here will go no further."

Memnos pushed the door closed and muttered, "I gathered as much."

Jemiel eyed the Chains of Shame and queried, "This one is disgraced, are you sure of his quality?"

Phalros replied candidly, "Unfortunately there are no others available, he will have to do."

Memnos took their criticism without resentment, knowing he deserved far worse and said, "I stand ready to serve."

"He will suffice," Echeb affirmed, "His soul is humbled, his shame is a shield against hubris and deceit. He can only speak the truth."

Memnos was lost as their purpose and asked, "My Lord, why am I here?"

Phalros explained candidly, "A serious problem has arisen in Third Company. Captain Toran has taken it into his head to promote a couple of Brothers to the rank of Lieutenant. I cautioned him against it but he ignored my advice and went ahead anyway."

Memnos didn't understand the problem, a Chapter Master's word was law in most matters but a Captain had free reign to organise his Company as he saw fit. If Toran wanted more Lieutenants he could have as many as he damned well pleased. Memnos stated, "He is well within his rights, what business is it of ours?"

Echeb replied frankly, "Its Brothers Persion and Jediah."

"Oh…" Memnos breathed as the news sank in and he looked for an appropriate response, "Crap."

Jemiel scowled as he spat, "I still don't understand, who are these two to cause such vexation?"

Memnos was brutally honest as he said, "They are a pair of malcontents and rogues, ever in trouble for some infraction or other. Persion delights in flaunting comms-protocols and Jediah… a bloodthirsty savage, fit for killing and little else. To imagine them as officers and leaders of Marines is laughable."

Jemiel lifted a brow in scepticism as he asked, "How did they ever pass the trails and become Initiates?"

Echeb explained, "They were fierce killers and loyal at heart, the Chapter has a need for killers. The kindest description of them is they are worthy line-Astartes, but commanders they are not."

Phalros agreed, "They have been riding Toran's coattails for years but I have long thought they should be sent away."

Jemiel shook his head and said, "Toran seems an intelligent and perceptive Captain, why does he tolerate them if they are so inferior?"

Phalros sighed, "They were Toran's squadmates when he was a Sergeant, such bonds can last a lifetime. The Masters saw greatness in Toran but also that his friendship with them was a liability. A Captain cannot be too familiar with those he may have to send to their deaths. When the time came to elevate him the late Gorgall and I determined to separate them, we thought fifty years in the First Company should be enough to instil the discipline required of a Captain."

Memnos added, "Then Vorshaan invaded the Fortress-Monastery, Toran got jumped up to Captain early and the first thing he did was promote his old buddies to his Command Squad."

"Nepotism," Jemiel spat, "Rank Nepotism."

"Indeed," Echeb confirmed, "I counselled at the time the others should be sent to the Deathwatch, but there were internal tensions in the Chapter and Gorgall could not afford to undermine Toran so publically. He was already a divisive figure and his position was tenuous at best. So we let it lie, waiting for the moment one of them messed up enough to justify sending them away, yet strangely it worked out."

"Mostly thanks to Furion's presence," Phalros muttered, "I was content to leave Toran's little band of misfits be, so long as they had so stalwart a figure to kick them back into line when they strayed."

Jemiel looked disturbed as he said, "I had no idea this Chapter was so fractious in its internal politics."

"The Storm Heralds have oft been our own worst enemies," Memnos lamented, "Now Toran's sending his friends out on their own. He is blind to how poorly suited they are to leadership, this will be a disaster."

Jemiel declared, "Then overrule him, stop the promotion."

Phalros shook his head and said, "Undermine Toran's command so soon after your Primaris brethren join us, with the Primarch sitting on our shoulder? No, he barely tolerated us to exist once, I will suffer no hint of scandal to tempt his wrath a second time. I cannot interfere directly without shaming the whole Chapter in the eyes of our Gene-father."

Echeb added, "To have the Masters interfering in the command of a Captain is a troubling prospect, even this meeting stinks of subterfuge and ignominy. Thank the Throne we were able to make the promotion a brevet, that way we can demote the pair without undue fuss when trouble erupts."

Jemiel cocked his head and said, "Has anyone considered the possibility they might succeed? It's a simple diplomatic mission; all they have to do is stand straight and look intimidating. How can anyone mess that up?"

Memnos scoffed, "You haven't met them, Persion will probably insult every Imperial official he sees and Jediah… I would count it a blessing if he only manages to start a war."

Echeb looked thoughtful as he mused, "What is required is a watchman, someone who can keep them in check and guide them away from mistakes."

Memnos guessed, "Chaplain Furion? He can keep them in order."

Phalros sighed, "Too senior and too authoritative. If Furion goes he will be in charge of the mission. It will keep the others in line for now but merely kick the can down the road. Next month we will have the same problem."

Memnos mused, "What you need is someone who can keep an eye on them, someone they will listen to, someone not obviously above them in the chain of command."

He broke off as he realised all three of them were staring at him and stammered, "Oh no… not me, I am not suitable."

Yet Phalros smiled coldly as he said, "I disagree, you are perfect. Nobody will suspect you are our agent, you can do what must be done."

"You want me to spy?" Memnos spat in vexation, "I refuse, are my shames not enough!"

Yet Echeb corrected, "You misunderstand our intent. We ask not that you betray your Brothers, but help them. Be the voice of reason and wisdom, steer them to wiser courses and temper their violent instincts. They need you to stand with them against their own mistakes… you of all people should understand that."

Memnos' eyes flashed to his Chains of Shame, the sign of his terrible mistakes. His duty was undeniable, he had to prevent others from making similar errors and reluctantly he said, "Very well, I shall do it."

"Good," Phalros declared, "I suggest you leave immediately and present yourself to the new Lieutenants. Keep them from screwing up too badly. When you get back they can be quietly folded back into the ranks, or sent to the Deathwatch, depending on how badly it goes."

Memnos accepted the order but he was troubled, keeping everybody in line promised to be a vexing mission. The journey ahead looked to be filled with discord and tension. He found his hands aching for a scalpel to start cutting himself again, he suspected it would be less painful than what lay ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 4**

His heartbeat rang loudly in his ears, the pulse drowning out all else. His skin tingled and the soles of his feet itched from vertigo as the wind tried to pull him from his perch. Every nerve in his body felt alive from the rush, bringing him to the peak of exhilaration and unlocking his emotions. Barriers within his mind fell as he sank into the training regime, allowing dark and terrible feelings free reign. Everything about the experience stoked his passions, from the danger and physical exertion to the ritual markings painted on his face and body. Manaar was approaching the climax of his preparations and he could feel his identity being subsumed by another. A darker and more ferocious Manaar who fought without restraint. This was the essence of the Aspect Warriors, to bifurcate their souls and lock away their darkest impulses behind a thick wall.

Manaar was currently hanging upside-down from a silver tower, clinging to it by his fingertips and toes. He was dressed in a form-fitting suit of red cloth, resembling his Aspect armour and from his belt hung various climbing tools while his back bore a bulky teleport generator, a far more elegant and precise instrument than anything the barbaric Mon-Keigh could create. Below him was a dizzying drop, the slim tower plummeting to the ground in a fashion that promise certain death if he slipped. The tower was surrounded by many others, each a fluted spire of smooth curves and balconies, adorned with graceful statues of the dead Gods. The subtle beauty of it was a fragment of the lost Empire, Wraithbone towers and shining bridges that could have been plucked from any of the Crone Worlds, save that they dwelt under a starry dome of the Craftworld. Once this city had rung with the music and laughter of Eldar living robust lives but that had been another age, when the First Exiles could dream of restoring their Empire, now it was a city of silence. The dream had faded along with their numbers, their diminishing population stealing their hope away. Each generation born was lesser than the one before and now the city was almost empty, only a few lonely lights yet shimmered in the windows, burning in defiance of extinction.

Normally such a sight would have saddened him but that was the other Manaar, the hesitant and feeble half of his being. The Aspect Warrior was focused on the moment, driven and fierce and wild and he was about to prove it. Manaar felt the wind drop for an instant and he immediately let go of his perch. Gravity snatched him as he plummeted head first, face turned towards the ground. The tower shot by and windows blurred past as he fell, diving towards certain death. The wind roared in his ears and his hands prickled with danger but his movements were smooth and confident as he drew forth a grappling line from a pouch on his belt and let it fly. The line whipped away from him, perfectly timed so that the weighted end wrapped itself around a statue of the dead god Asuryan, cited half-way up a tower. Manaar felt the line snap taught and his ribs flexed with the fluidity of the Eldar as an immense force snatched him to one side.

Manaar's fall became a wide swing, carrying him around on the end of his line like a pendulum. He found himself hurtling towards a white wall at breakneck speed but he met it with his feet, running along the length of the slope as his line swung him around. He raced across the surface of the tower then bunched up and leapt free, jerking his line as he did so. The precise movement freed the weighted end and the line slipped away, retracting into his pouch on automatic. Manaar was now dropping towards a bridge, a slender span threading between two towers. He placed a single foot upon it and sprung away, glorifying in the freedom of movement. Manaar has shown incredible acrobatic ability thus far but his leap had taken him too far from the next foothold. He was dropping through empty air, without a ledge or protrusion to save him. The ground rose rapidly, unyielding and deadly but Manaar was not afraid. His soul was centred and honed, a razor-sharp slice of will. There was no doubt or hesitation in his mind, only the unwavering conviction of his resolve and his pure undiluted font of determination. Manaar was in a state of perfect clarity, unencumbered by weakness or indecision. The higher state of being a Warp Spider must achieve to risk using his warp-jump generator.

A psychic impulse triggered the strange device and Manaar disappeared in a burst of Unlight, leaving behind wisps of gossamer mist. For an instant the Eldar moved across the Warp, unprotected and exposed. He heard the chittering of Daemons resonate in his being, their eternal hunger craving the warm sustenance of his soul. Visions of worlds that had never existed or were yet to be born bloomed in his eyes, populated by peoples who could have been or might be. He was everywhere and nowhere, he existed and did not exist in that timeless realm. He moved over the surface of the Warp like a stone skipping over still water but from the depths a vast and hungry maw rose, trying to find him: She Who Thirsts. Had Manaar been afraid, had he known doubt or uncertainty he would have been consumed, but his soul was focused and void of indecision. He was clear in his purpose, transparent and invisible to the Chaos God's sight. For this reason were the Warp Spiders the only Eldar who could risk such a transit, for this reason were they known as the bravest of Eldar.

Manaar's warp-jump lasted a single beat of the heart, though it felt like hours and he emerged onto a balcony remote from his last position. He hit the surface with a rolling landing, tumbling head over heels in a controlled fashion to climb to his feet with his arms raised in triumph. The world was dazzling to his eyes, the air sweeter than he had ever known and current of pure joy flowed through him as he released his will and allowed himself to feel the heady rush of victory. This was what it meant to be an Aspect Warrior, not to suppress his emotions but to experience them to the fullest, to become all that he could be. It was a sublime moment, unfortunately it was spoiled as a weary voice sighed, "Are you done?"

Manaar spun on his heel and crouched low, arms held parallel to the ground in the ritual combat stance of the Warp Spiders. His hands instinctively flexed to expose the phase-blades attached to his vambraces but of course he wasn't wearing his full armour so nothing happened. Nevertheless he was on his guard, his training ground was secret and only he knew the route he took, chosen at random so none would observe him. As if that wasn't enough his warp-jump was incalculable and impossible to predict. Nobody should have known he would be here, but yet a lone figure was waiting for him. Before Manaar stood a grey-haired Eldar with lines under his eyes. Those weren't signs of age but of stress, their race did not succumb to time so easily as others but their lives were harrowing beyond measure. This being wore a long black robe, marked with sigils of mystery and enigma, and in his hand was a tall staff topped with the rune of Lileath, the dead god of fortune and fate. His eyes bore great sadness, as if he had seen his own death, but beneath that was steely determination and a chilling ruthlessness.

Manaar kept his combat stance as he hissed, "What are you doing here?"

The other adopted the Stance of Conciliation as he replied, "You said if I wanted to speak to you then I should come myself, so I came."

Manaar sneered, "You knew I would say that, as you knew I would be here. Why bother with the charade?"

The other answered, "If hadn't then you wouldn't be here."

Manaar's eyes narrowed as he said, "Its always the same with you Koshano, tautologies and excuses."

Koshano affected a pained expression as he remarked, "You once called me father."

Manaar slowly stood upright, relaxing his stance, as he muttered, "You lost that right when you turn your back on our family to become a Farseer."

The Farseer exhaled in sorrow as he looked over the balcony towards the silent city. Manaar glared at his back as his emotions warred within him. His resentment and bitterness towards his father ran deep but half of him wanted to talk and the other didn't. His Warp Spider Aspect was violent and aggressive, eager for bloodshed and sorrow, but the calmer half of his soul wanted to converse, to wring answers out of his father and make him apologise. For a moment he almost let his darker half rule his actions but his training suppressed that instinct and mental walls rose, leaving only the nobler half of his nature.

Manaar joined his father in staring out at the city as he remarked, "You are fortunate I wasn't in my aspect armour, this could have ended violently."

Koshano replied, "That possibility existed, yet the risk was minimal. Either way my thread does not depart from the Skein this day."

Manaar snorted in derision, "You see so much, yet you did not foresee mother's fall."

"You linger in that moment," Koshano sighed, "Always that tragedy lies between us, can we not move past it?"

Manaar spat angrily, "No we cannot, you left us when we needed you most. All your vaunted prognostication and you could not see your own wife's doom approaching. Or maybe you did, maybe you foresaw mother being consumed by her Path and chose to do nothing, to sacrifice your family for some convoluted game in the Skein."

Koshano made the Gesture of Parley, "If we cannot set that aside, can we at least pretend to talk of other things?"

Manaar replied with the Sign of Veiled Contempt as he snorted, "Very well, let us pretend to be other people. Speak swiftly."

Koshano looked up at the stars and explained, "The Skein draws tight as threads of destiny close together. The Rhana Drandra is upon us and the End Times have begun. Gods and Demigods set their game-pieces upon the board for the final contest and all must play or be played. Chaos is in the ascendant, yet we Eldar have long prepared for this moment, as has the Mon-Keigh Corpse-God. He has revealed the first of his pieces, the Statesman, and made his first move."

Manaar nodded as he said, "The weapons who think they are sons. The Exarchs teach of them. They were flawed creations, imperfect from the beginning, their doom was inevitable."

Koshano elaborated, "Plans are unfolding, schemes within schemes, wheels within wheels. I have traced the Skein and sensed a confluence of destinies. The Cupbearer of Tzeentch offers a chalice of friendship which hides a poisoned draught and the least favoured son shall taste the bitter wine of betrayal. Long has this board been set but I cannot see the outcome of the game. A misplaced fulcrum unbalances the pattern, making that which should be certain, uncertain."

Manaar chewed on this for a moment then concluded, "A threat has emerged to the plans of Corpse-Gods and Farseers. An enemy to the cause of Order. You want this one eliminated."

Koshano sighed, "Another has already tried to interfere, uncaring what carnage she wrecked in her quest for revenge, but she was cast down among the Dark Kin. Now I must take up the mantle."

Manaar thought about it and asked, "What does this mission involve?"

Koshano explained, "You must come with me to meet a mutual ally, one who walks hand in hand with abomination. She will escort you to a Mon-Keigh world called Pascum, where your target awaits."

Manaar snorted in disgust, "To walk among the Mon-Keigh? They are pathetic wretches, ignoring our wisdom, clinging to their cherished ignorance."

Koshano stated, "If we do not act they will die."

"Let them die," Manaar spat.

Koshano shook his head and explained, "Our Craftworld's fate is bound to this confluence, if we do not act the doom of Furta-Rith is sealed. No Whispering God can change that, no matter what the vain fools of Ulthwe think."

Manaar glanced at his father and asked, "So why me? Why do the council of Farseer's not make a formal request to the Shrines?"

A dark look passed over Koshano's face as he said, "The other Farseers disagree with my conclusions, they prefer to meditate and consider the Skein. Trying to steer a course around the threat rather than simply remove it."

"You're acting alone" Manaar accused him, "Always the same, thinking you know better than everybody else. I want nothing to do with you. Go ask the Dire Avengers, they would leap at a chance to serve."

Koshano replied, "No, they cannot walk among the primitives as you can. No other is so divided in his heart, no other is so torn between two paths. Only you can appear harmless… until your target is within your reach."

"And who's fault is that?!" Manaar seethed, "You tore my heart out the day you allowed mother to fall. You could have saved her from her Path, but you didn't!"

Koshano drew in a slow breath and whispered, "It seems our time of pretence was short. I can only tell you that the Skein is a terrible mistress, cruel and demanding and unforgiving. In time you will understand why I must be as I am. But the choice remains to be made and the fate of the Craftworld hangs on your answer."

Manaar bit back a retort, knowing there was only one possible answer. He made the sign of Reluctant Acceptance and said, "I will do what you ask of me, not for your sake but for Furta-Rith."

Koshano lowered his head and said, "You make me proud my son, though you hate to hear me say it. I shall be watching you in the Skein but I cannot intervene. You are on your own once you leave my side."

Manaar laughed scornfully, "Ha nothing changes. I am always on my own."

Koshano sighed, "Alas that is true. Still the Skein waits for no one, pack your armour securely but wear it not. We walk the Webway this day, to meet with the one who shall take you to the Mon-Keigh."

"Let us be swift," Manaar muttered, "I want to spend as little time among the Mon-Keigh as possible. I shall meet you at the Webway nexus in one-tenth of a cycle." Koshano bowed in acceptance of his son's decision and with that they parted ways, following the threads of destiny.


	5. Chapter 5

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 5**

The weight of age hung upon Pascum like a heavy coat. The planet sweltered under the light of a red sun, casting the world into a humid torpor. Across the world oceans churned lazily, with no moon to stir the tides the seas moved slowly and unhurriedly, like an old Mastiff that was tired of running. Vast lowlands and river deltas covered the majority of the continents, the handful of mountains made low and unimpressive by billions of years of erosion. Even the volcanoes were sleeping, for Pascum was nearing the end of its geological activity, the world's core growing feebler as age diminished its strength. Yet the people of Pascum endured as they always had.

Across the wetlands caste-farmers grew rice and water-weeds, tending to their crops and shaggy-haired cattle with total indifference to the lives of others. Merchant-caste traders slooped up and down the rivers on shallow-draught boats, driven by teams of pole-men bred specifically for the task. Along the river banks constables patrolled for roaming bandits, criminals and law enforcers playing out the same chases their great-grandfathers had enacted. Lords were carried between cities in elaborate litters, bourne on the shoulders of strong servants. Dockworkers taught their sons the same lessons their fathers had taught them, as did Factorum workers and spaceport guards. Thus did Pascum endure, proud of its unchanging nature and committed to preserving its genic purity.

The Capital City of Pasdem was no different. In the oppressive heat the ancient boulevards rang with the busy cries of people. The streets thronged with bodies, the populace in this city denser than anywhere else. They went about their lives, hurrying to their business while burly guards forced paths through the crowds for their lords to pass unencumbered. Pickpockets dipped hands into purses, caste-beggars held out their arms for coins while news hawkers held out pamphlets and cried the latest news as ground-cabs rumbled along, carrying goods to and from the nearby starport. Amongst that crowd the few off-worlders stuck out like sore thumbs, their clothing not following the strict social customs on attire and their features unpleasing in their randomness. The people of Pascum clung to their lineages with fierce pride and the Imperial's indifference to such things brought many filthy looks and resentful mutters behind their backs.

Pasdem city itself displayed this division in its bricks and stone. The city was atypically smooth and with many domed roofs that were unlike the steep, jagged architecture of Imperial construction. The Governor's Palace, known long before the coming of the Imperium as the Jade Citadel, was a curious mix of low emerald domes, graceful minarets set against ugly gun-towers, vox-antennas and void-shield projectors, tacked on centuries after its construction and marring its beautiful lines. Elsewhere the bronzed trading floors of the famous Flesh-markets stood opposed to the brutal edifice of the Arbites' Precinct. The busy servitor-controlled machinery of the Starport gave way to teams of burly men shifting goods onto trucks by hand. The sprawling Laboritorum-domes of the Genic Council competed with the sharp steeples of the Ecclesiarchal Cathedral for grandeur and dominance over the minds of the locals. Even the great plaza of the First Landing was overshadowed by the Monument of Reunification, a single needle a kilometre high, that cast a long shadow over the city like a sundial. All caught in its shadow cast a bitter look upwards at the symbol of their Imperial overlords.

From the Jade Citadel a man glared at that monument to hubris and fought to keep a sneer off his lips. He was tall, with mahogany skin and dark eyes. His features were sharp with a calculating intelligence hidden behind his mask of humility. His head was shaved bald and oiled, save for a long braid of hair that fell from the back of his skull and wrapped over one shoulder. He was dressed in a tight black robe of office, with markings of the Caste-Scribes along the edges. Like all of his lineage he affected a quiet yet watchful air but his humble attire was offset by a red seal of office hanging around his neck on a golden chain: the seal of the First Secretary. His name was Odrin and he was late for a meeting but he was not concerned.

Around Odrin various servants moved quietly with their heads bowed and eyes averted in respect. Odrin paid them no mind, their presence was beneath his notice. What did irk him though was the hushed whispers as the servants scurried away, muttering about 'The Butcher of Derekes.' That name made him grit his teeth, nobody understood him, nobody had known his mind yet that black day clung to him like a stain on his robe. Angered by the ignorance of others Odrin turned from the window and set off down a marble corridor. He did not rush for all knew Odrin was never late; it was merely that others were often early.

Odrin passed along ancient marble corridors, lined with many fountains that sparkled like ruby wine in the red light of Pascum's star. The walls bore many watercolours of stunning landscapes and sweeping vistas, painted by artists bred for their depth of visual perception and hand-to-eye coordination. Nubile courtesans lounged on sofas, their forms perfected by millennia of directed breeding to make them as much a part of the scenery as the paintings. Green plant-pots hung on bronze chains, rare species from across the planet watered by plodding servitors with dead eyes. These made Odrin grit his teeth: ugly, cumbersome things that did not fit Pascum. They were typical of Imperial thinking, so brutal and wasteful, taking whatever they could get and wasting the rest. Why did the Dominus bother with such offensive tools, Odrin wondered, when the Flesh-markets could provide stock of superior quality?

Finally Odrin came to a bronze door and a pair of burly guards with ceremonial staves opened the way for him, without needing any prompting. It was known people who disappointed him tended to meet unfortunate accidents, that could be in no way traced back to him. Odrin slipped inside and found himself in a large room painted like the night sky, complete with shining constellations. Inside that room a gathering was formed around a circular Sederwood table. There were merchants and generals and the heads of various departments of government, indigenous to Pascum and Imperial. They were powerful men and women but Odrin thought them all fools.

The First Secretary slipped inside and made his way around the table. Many eyes followed him but none dared comment on his tardiness. Though he was lower in office than anyone here none would dare challenge Odrin openly, for in the deadly game of politics he held that most subtle of weapons: influence. It was said Odrin had ears in every room and half the servants in the city were his spies. It wasn't quite true, but it wasn't far off either. Certainly a word from him could make or break a deal, elevate a useful man, destroy a career or make someone disappear without a trace. He had risen from the shadows, gaining power slowly and subtly, until none could remember a day when he was not standing at the shoulder of the Dominus.

Odrin slid into a high backed chair as a ruddy-faced man with a magnificent moustache declared, "The protests are spreading, nineteen cities are plagued by demonstrations and work slow-downs. It is intolerable!"

Across the table from him a dark man with a lone strip of hair running from his brow to the nape of his neck replied, "Let me send forth my troops to put down the protesters."

They were Marshal Mungo Gunnah of the Adeptus Arbites and General Clemas Bassail of the PDF. Between them they controlled the military forces of Pascum and had they thought to work together they could have ruled the planet. Thankfully they were bitter enemies, constantly bickering and squabbling over petty slights. They were effectively stalemated, neither able to act in any fashion without being blocked. It worked out well for Odrin, which was why he had spent years fostering their petty feud.

Marshal Gunnah barked, "Send in armed troops?! No, this is a civilian matter, let the Arbites handle it."

Clemas snorted, "It is Imperials the people protest against, the sight of your men will incite the malcontents. Let the PDF handle it."

"Over my dead body," Gunnah hissed.

"That can be arranged," Clemas spat back.

As the pair bickered Odrin examined the rest of the room. The various power blocs and factions he had set up effectively neutered the vast majority of them, leaving a power vacuum for him to fill. In the entire room there were only two others worth listening to and one of them interjected, "Stop shouting you heathens. We are not here to bicker like children but to pay the God-Emperor's Due."

That was Archbishop Dunlas, the spiritual potentate of Pascum. Odrin had met a few high-ranking members of the Imperial Faith and quickly realised that they believed as little in the corpse of Terra as he did. Most Cardinals were more interested in their wanton vices than spiritual pastorship and the sham that was the Ecclesiarchy was rotten to the core. Dunlas however had the burning eyes and raging conviction of a true fanatic. He believed hard and completely, which Odrin suspected was why he'd been dumped on this remote planet where he couldn't cause too much upset.

Dunlas continued, "The people have a sacred duty to pay the Regent's Tithe."

Across the table from him a thin woman uttered, "These Emergency Tithes are too heavy, the people of Pascum cry out for relief."

She was harridan of a woman, in a black headdress that flowed around her shoulders and was tied tightly under her chin. She had pale eyes which combined with her dark complexion made her seem like she had chips of ice in her sockets. This was Matriarch Tyvis, head of the Genic Council which was responsible for planning every marriage and birth on Pascum. She was also Dunlas' chief rival for the hearts and minds of Pascum's people.

Dunlas stared at his hated rival and spat, "Such talk is blasphemy."

"Blasphemy," Tyvis snorted, "Blasphemy is what your kind has done to Pascum. Soiling our Genic hygiene with your inferior bloodlines. Putting ideas into the people's heads about breeding outside of their assigned matches. Stealing the blood of our best stock."

Dunlas grinned evilly as he stated, "The Guard Foundings are all volunteers, nobody is forcing your people to leave."

Tyvis looked like she had bit down on a lemon as she hissed, "They should be content to live in the roles I set for them. If the Imperium requires soldiers I could breed superior warriors. Strong and obedient, far superior to the endless hordes you scoop up."

Dunlas sneered, "Quantity has a quality all its own."

As much as Odrin enjoyed seeing his rivals bicker he knew this could go on for days. So he interrupted to say, "Lords and ladies, this behoves us not. Let us discuss how we are to pay this Emergency Tithe."

Faces fell as the thought loomed and General Clemas whined, "We can't, we're still rebuilding after the blood and horror of the Noctis Aeterna. This tithe will break the treasury, our economy will collapse."

Heads nodded but Marshal Gunnah argued, "The Imperium does not care for your paltry fortunes. Terra will have its due, one way or another."

Everybody looked uncomfortable at the veiled threat, knowing what a fleet of warships could do to their world. Quietly Odrin proposed, "A series of progressive tax increases could…."

Matriarch Tyvis cut him off snapping, "The people won't wear it, we are taxed to the bone already. You will start a civil war."

Archbishop Dunlas hissed, "Maybe the cleansing fire of war will purge the deadwood around here."

Tyvis bristled in anger but Odrin intervened, "Then there is but one option left… a royal marriage."

Suddenly there was a squawk from beside him as a withered crone cried, "Never!"

That was Aleys Bassail, the Dominus of Pascum. She was a shrivelled hag with parchment skin and rotten teeth. Her hair was lank and her robes hung upon her like a tent. She was lost in the arms of a life-support throne, whose pumping fluid lines and bubbling cauldrons of elixirs were the only thing keeping her alive. Her throne loomed over the table and all eyes turned to her as she spat, "I won't marry my heir to the blood of Viscount Proam!"

Odrin knew the old hag had clung to power for centuries, and she hadn't been young when she claimed the crown. Odrin had spent decades worming his way into her court, despite the fact he held her in contempt he had made himself indispensable to her rule. Aleys had played off her rivals against each other expertly for centuries but her grip was slipping at last and her reign was faltering, she depended on Odrin to survive. The fact that she had finally agreed to have her eggs unfrozen to sire heirs on surrogate mothers proved that she knew she was on the brink of doom. Odrin looked into her rheumy eyes and said, "Dominus, we must. The Viscount is the richest man on the planet and leads the largest merchant consortium. Their combined wealth could ease the Tithe burden and free your people from poverty."

Aleys snapped back, "And give that fat leach Bekes Proam a foothold in my house! I won't have it!"

"Lord Governor," Dunlas stated, unaware how loathsome the Imperial title sounded, "Do not underestimate the morale boost a royal wedding can produce. The people love pomp and spectacle, to see your son and heir marry the daughter of Proam would distract many from their woes."

Tyvis added, "The Genic Council approves, prognostications show the match will produce high-quality offspring. The union of your two houses is favourable to Pascum."

Aleys scowled as she seethed, "This is a conspiracy against me!"

Odrin sighed theatrically, "Then I have failed you, I am filled with sorrow and must tender my resignation at once."

That put a stop to the protests. Aleys knew her rule was being propped up by her First Secretary and without him her dynasty would fall. The realisation crept over her that she had no choice and the old shrew finally nodded in silent acceptance. Many faces breathed a little easier at her agreement but Odrin was laughing inside at this collection of venal idiots. They didn't know it but they had just tipped the first domino in his rise to power. Events were now in motion that would soon see Odrin topple the Bassail line, throw the Imperium off Pascum and assume the crown of the Dominus for himself. It was a good job they couldn't hear his thoughts, he gloated, else they would know how much he was looking forward to chopping off all their heads.


	6. Chapter 6

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 6**

Through the Warp a small ship sailed, riding psychic currents like a fish slipping along a fast stream. Dodging whirlpools of despair and reefs of grief she dove over waterfalls of passion and narrowly avoided being dashed to pieces on the rocks of adulterous lust. She flew down the cyclic flows to Tectum then up the tributary branch leading to the Heraculan Deeps, but when she passed Sucaris she broke away and began tacking across shoals of avarice towards the glimmering island of life that was Pascum.

The vessel was small by void standards, a mere Gladius-class frigate and her name was the Eternal Fidelity. Within the ship Persion was laying on his back, staring at a bare metal ceiling as red paint hardened on his armour. The new Lieutenant was propped up by his backpack generator and his Friction Axe lay at his side. Nearby the sound of boltguns faded as the battle ended, leaving one team victorious and the other defeated. Persion should have been elated at the result but in truth he was angry, and he was determined to take it out on someone. Persion got to his feet and clamped his axe to his hip as he voxed, "Sergeants, report to me."

He was in a mock-up of an urban street, a recreation of a battlefield perfect down the rubble on the ground and the smoking ground-cabs burning on their sides. All Astartes vessels boasted training facilities that could recreate any environment imaginable. The largest Battlebarges could host three whole Companies at once. The Fidelity wasn't quite so impressive, she could only fit a street or two in her training arena but it was enough for a few squads to practice manoeuvres. Persion had been running drills with his new command, but it hadn't gone well. In fact it had been a complete mess.

Persion stood impatiently as several Marines emerged into sight. First came Jediah, his blue team trudging along in defeat. He had with him Sergeant Yones and nine more Primaris Intercessors, beaten but not defeated in spirit. From the other direction came Sergeant Zeax, his burly Devastators lugging Heavy-bolters while the Sergeant held a Thunder Hammer and Storm Shield. Then there was Gotram of the Reivers, striding cockily along in victory. The last person was Apothecary Memnos, whose white armour was spattered with blue paint.

Persion waited for the lot of them to stop in front of him then spat, "What was that?!"

Gotram spoke first, "It looked like a victory to me."

Persion glared at his insouciant face and snapped, "Victory?! You used me as bait then shot everybody in sight!"

"Yes," Gotram replied, "And?"

Persion gestured at the red paint on his armour then snapped, "I was on your side!"

Gotram shrugged in his lighter armour, "Acceptable causalities."

"Just stop talking," Persion hissed, "Zeax, where were you?"

Zeax glared back defiantly as he growled, "I was exactly where you told me to be. Set up in that building at the end and don't move unless ordered, you said."

Persion snapped, "Surely you could see Blue Team came from an unexpected direction!"

"Don't get lippy with me," Zeax growled, "It's not my fault if your orders didn't allow me any tactical flexibility."

Persion ground his teeth in frustration, mostly because Zeax was right. Persion's first attempts at running a training drill had been a complete hash; he'd screwed up a simple engagement and was aware he was blaming others for his own mistakes. Zeax was a veteran warrior who'd fought as long as Persion and knew how to adapt to a changing battlezone, but the inexperienced Lieutenant hadn't given him the freedom to do so. Persion had tried to micromanage the engagement and been caught flatfooted. Zeax knew it as well as Persion did and wasn't about to swallow blame for someone else's mistake.

Persion had participated in countless drills under Captain Toran and tried to imagine what his commander would say in this scenario. Probably congratulate the winners then make some overblown speech about Brotherhood and duty. Persion drew in a breath and said, "Red team won, but the blue team shouldn't be ashamed. Just because you lost doesn't mean you were bad… er… I mean you weren't as good as red team but it's not a competition. Well, it is but…"

Thankfully Yones stepped in to say, "They got lucky, we'll thrash them next time Lieutenant!" Persion was glad the Primaris was present. Yones may have been new to the Chapter but he had been irrepressibly cheerful since they'd left Lujan II, just about the only one who was. Zeax had been dour as always, Gotram had been ceaseless in his efforts to cause trouble, Jediah hadn't been helpful or troublesome, seemingly content to sit back and watch events unfold. The real wildcard was Memnos, who had turned up at their embarkation and announced he'd be coming along too. Persion had quickly figured out the Apothecary had come along to keep an eye on him, though the specialist's prompting was making him look stupid.

It was at that point Memnos said, "Shouldn't we get cleaned up before we try again?"

Persion sighed, "Very well, go back to barracks and scrape this paint off. We'll meet again in three hours, next time we'll try bringing the Repulsor tanks into the fight and see how it develops."

Gotram snorted, "Why wait, I'm ready to go right now."

Persion glared at his irritating question and snapped, "I said three hours."

Gotram wasn't the least abashed as he said, "You go ahead; my Reivers will stay here and run drills."

Yones volunteered, "My Intercessors will stay too."

"No," Persion barked, "I've told you to go back to your chambers, stop questioning my orders!"

With that Persion left them behind as he stormed off, muttering under his breath about the insolence of his squads. He marched away from the training arena, storming past baffled serfs and leaving them dazed in his wake. Teams of Enginseers were forced to jump out his way, dropping tools in their haste to avoid being crushed while he glared foully at them. A party of workers dragging carts of laundry were taken by surprise, one of their loads bring tipped over as the Astartes smacked his hip against it, throwing it onto its side with his bulk as he strode by. Persion brooked none to delay his path for he was in a foul mood and had no patience for anyone else's stupid concerns.

He stormed back to the quarters set aside for the commanding officer and thumped his fist on the runepad to open the hatch. Inside was the standard officer's billet common to all Storm Herald ships, bunk, workbench, desk piled high with reports, armour and weapon stands. There was also a lone serf-equerry, labouring over the piles of paperwork on the desk. He looked up as Persion stomped in but hastily fled as he growled, "Get out." Persion was alone, but that meant he had no distractions from his thoughts. He didn't want to think about recent events so grabbed a sonic-lathe and applied it to his armour, scouring the paint marks from his plate with ultrasonic pulsations. Unfortunately that only bought him a few minutes of distraction so he threw the tool down, forgetting to bless the Machine Spirits for their service, and dumped himself into a reinforced chair at the desk. He sat there for almost a minute, face curling as he brooded on the voyage so far. Bitterly he gnawed on his botched leadership, wondering how Toran managed to get through a day without screaming at people for their idiocy.

Finally his patience wore thin and he leaned forward to thump his forehead loudly on the wooden desk, none too gently it must be noted. Minutes crawled past as he stewed in frustration, going over the last few days in his mind and each time blaming someone different. Yones, Gotram, Zeax, Jediah… each Brother had a turn at being cussed out in his head. His brooding was interrupted by a cough at the door and he lifted his head a fraction to see Memnos and Jediah standing at the still open hatch, their armour cleaned so well it gleamed. Persion jerked upright, shamed at the pathetic sight he must have presented as he spat, "What is it?!"

Memnos stepped within without being invited and remarked, "We thought you could do with a sympathetic ear."

Persion glanced at Jediah and lifted an eyebrow curiously but his savage Brother merely muttered, "It was his idea, not mine."

Memnos sat down in a chair across the desk and laced his fingers before him as he stared at the Lieutenant. Jediah for his part merely leaned against the workbench, drawing his Fractal Short-sword and examining the edge as if uninterested in the proceedings. Persion eyed the pair of them then said, "So… you're playing Furion this day."

Memnos looked puzzled as he inquired, "Excuse me?"

Persion sighed, "I've seen how this goes when Toran's in one of his brooding moods. Furion always cheers him up and sets him straight. Are you here to put me back on the righteous path?"

Memnos shook his head as he uttered, "Not my department, I deal with biological mysteries not spiritual counselling."

Persion sank back as he groaned, "Damnation, I could do with some supportive words after that screwup."

Memnos affirmed, "It certainly was a clusterfrak."

"You're not helping," Persion muttered resentfully, "I don't know how I got it so wrong. I did everything Toran does; he took to leadership like he was born to it."

Memnos sniffed, "Leadership is in Toran's blood, frankly you're not very good at it."

Persion glared at him as he spat, "For a healer you have a lousy bedside manner."

Memnos lifted his arm, exposing the Chains of Shame as he growled, "Lies led me to this. I will speak only harsh truths to you."

Persion sighed, "I could use some comforting lies right now. I keep asking: what would Toran do differently? Make some big melodramatic speech, reminded everybody of their Brotherhood and duty? I have to figure out what he would do to gain the trust of his Marines."

Jediah broke his silence to pronounce, "Wouldn't work, he has something you don't."

"A big red cloak?" Persion wondered aloud.

"Sincerity," Memnos rebuked him, "Toran may be a tad overdramatic but he means every word he says. The Marines sense that he believes in his principles with unwavering conviction, just as he believes in the men under his command. He looks at his squads and sees heroes, he thinks they are better than they know themselves to be, nobler and more selfless than our hearts truly are and they would die before disabusing him of his vision. Toran offered to let an untrusting Honour Guard cut out his heart and he willingly stood on a bridge against the fires of Chaos to save the innocent. He was punched into a coma by a Primarch, rather than let his Brothers confess to crimes we did not commit. A line-brother will overlook a few foibles for a Commander who lives and dies by the words he preaches."

"Are you saying I'm insincere?" Persion mused.

Memnos replied, "I think you're trying to be something you're not and the squads know it."

Persion sighed forlornly, "I've spent my whole life circumventing rules and bypassing protocols. Now I am the one who has to enforce them, I have no idea how to do that. It goes against every fibre of my being."

Memnos' eyes narrowed as he pointedly said, "You better find a way, or the Chapter Master will have you booted to the Deathwatch when we get back."

Persion frowned as understanding dawned and he accused, "He sent you to keep an eye on us?!"

Memnos replied candidly, "Of course he did."

Jediah looked up from his sword's edge as he asked, "What kind of spy tells everybody he's spying?"

Memnos replied, "One who is here to help you, not undermine you."

Persion pressed his hand to his forehead and said, "I'm starting to think the best thing is to get mission this over with as quickly as possible. Perhaps I should speak to the Navigator and ask if we can go any faster?"

"Bad idea," Jediah warned, "Never interrupt a Navigator in the Warp, unless you like wearing your skin inside out."

Persion groaned loudly, "I'll just have to make the best of it. At least Yones and his Intercessors are trying to be helpful. Zeax can be counted on to be Zeax. It's Gotram who's the real problem, if I can get the Reivers into line then maybe I can figure out the rest."

Memnos asked, "How do you intend to berate a bunch of Reivers into line?"

"I've got no idea," Persion sighed, "They don't listen to anyone but their own kind. Toran can't figure out how to get them to obey him, so how can I?"

Suddenly Jediah stood up and slid his Fractal Short-sword into its sheath. Persion looked over in concern and asked, "Where are you going?"

Jediah declared, "To handle them."

Persion frowned as he questioned, "Handle the Reivers, how?"

Jediah snorted, "Better you don't know."

Memnos questioned from his seat, "You're not going to do anything… regrettable are you?"

Jediah turned for the door and walked out leaving behind only a cryptic reply, "Trust me."

The pair were left alone, pondering what he had said and Persion mused, "What did he mean by that?"

Memnos replied, "I think it means he intends to take matters into his own hands."

Persion scoffed, "Jediah thinks he can handle the Reivers, all alone. How is that supposed to work?"

"He'll find a way," Memnos uttered with surety.

Persion snorted, "There's ten of them and one of him. Even Jediah can't be foolish enough to take them head-on. He must have some other plan."

Memnos stated grimly, "I think he plans to be Jediah."

Persion absorbed this statement for a moment, then his eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. Instantly he was out of his chair and leaping to the doorframe. He slammed his palms onto either side of the frame and stuck his head out into the corridor as he yelled at the top of his voice, "Don't eat their brains!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 7**

The interdimensional passages of the Webway shone brilliantly before him, swelling and shrinking organically as they flew along. The arcane psychic construct could be perilous to the unwary but it remained beautiful, an eternal reminder of the glory that the Eldar race had once possessed and then lost. Most passageways were barely large enough to walk down but others could fit entire Starships within and it was down one of these the Eagle Bomber flew.

Manaar worked the controls with steady diligence, his former Path as a pilot giving him the skills to control the elegant craft. He and Koshano had requisitioned the bomber for their journey and none dare gainsay a Farseer when he asked for something. Manaar hadn't been looking forward to a long journey in such a confined space as the cockpit but thankfully his companion had been silent. They had flown through the trackless maze of the Webway, seeing no other living thing for which he was glad. Strange dimensional twists had there been aplenty, mysterious branches blocked by potent runes forbidding entry and once they had even flown over the shattered ruins of a city. Manaar had no time to stop and investigate, for their target was near. A Psychic impulse through the control interface told him his father wanted them to head down a tiny offshoot from the main branch and Manaar twisted the Eagle over to dive into the cramped tunnel, so tight the bomber barely fit into the width of it. The glowing walls flashed by and Manaar focused his mind, making sure they didn't crash into the side of the tunnel and end their journey in ignominy.

The end of their trip came suddenly and without warning. One instant they were flying through the webway, the next a brilliant flash of light announced they had flown through a portal into realspace and the glowing light became the black of space. Manaar eased off the controls as he saw they had appeared over a desolate moon, a barren and airless rock of no import. It sat against the stars in almost perfect darkness, the local sun so far away it was merely a brighter star. Manaar knew they must be on the edge of the stellar system of Pascum, where none would see them. He checked they were safe behind the Eagle's shimmering Holofield and said aloud, "Where is your contact?"

Koshano replied serenely, "Awaiting my signal."

Manaar sensed the communication array sending out a message on the crude electromagnetic wavelengths Mon-Keigh used and to his surprise a message came back an instant later. It was nothing but a code of beeps and dashes, which Koshano responded to with another series of beeps. Manaar brushed the craft's sensors with his mind and sensed an object coming over the terminus of the moon, a huge slab of metal and thrusting plasma. A typically brutal Mon-Keigh ship, moving to intercept them. A mental impulse steered the Eagle towards the ship and Manaar's lip curled in revulsion as the vessel came into visual range. It was typical of human craftsmanship with vast slabs of ugly armour and exposed pipes, looking barely any different from Ork construction to his eye. The rear third was nothing but huge reactors and burning plasma torches, thrusting through space where the Eldar sailed with grace and dignity. The hull bore snarling gargoyles and painted Aquilas, feeble attempts to ward off Daemons during Warp transit. Even by human standards it was astonishingly ugly and ramshackle, lacking significant weapons or defences. It was no warship but a tramp scow, a bulk hauler with no pride or great lineage.

Manaar hissed, "How do such primitives think to claim the stars? That hulk looks like it couldn't survive a single Warp jump."

"You won't have to travel the warp in that," Koshano assured him, "Land in the waiting bay and conceal your contempt, do not let the Mon-Keigh know how much you loathe them."

"That will be a challenge," Manaar muttered as he manipulated the controls.

In a few minutes they entered a looming door in the side of the tramp, passing through an atmospheric shell to be grabbed by the internal gravity field. Manaar's hands danced across the controls as he compensated for the sudden shift and brought them in for a gentle landing on the bare metal deck. Air froze on their void chilled hull and the bomber settled down with a quiet whisper entirely unlike the roaring engines of Mon-Keigh shuttles. He had not been on a Mon-Keigh ship before but he had expected a gaggle of workers to tend to his craft, but there was no one to greet them, the bay was empty. Koshano briskly raised the canopy and jumped out and Manaar was a second behind. His boots hit the unyielding metal, so different to comforting Wraithbone and he shivered at the raw indifference of the substance.

Manaar breathed in air stinking of oil, metal and human body odour as he asked, "This contact, exactly what is your relationship?"

Koshano explained, "We have a mutually beneficial arrangement, I provide glimpses of the future and she moves among the Mon-Keigh, where I cannot go. Together we eliminate nascent threats to both our races."

"You aid Mon-Keigh with our races' gifts of prophecy," Manaar sneered contemptuously.

"That's what I want her to believe," Koshano replied with a cold smile.

"You and your games of fate," Manaar muttered sullenly, "Everything and everyone is merely another piece to be pushed around."

Koshano didn't reply but stood patiently waiting for events to unfold. With nothing else to do Manaar moved to the bomb bay and opened it, pulling out a large chest floating on an anti-grav field. It contained his armour and weapons, safe behind psychic locks he was confident no Mon-Keigh could break. The Farseer had cautioned him against wearing his Aspect armour openly but affirmed he would need it before the mission was over. When asked how Manaar would know when to open it the Farseer had stated he would know when the time was right.

Manaar stiffened as he sensed something approaching. He was no seer but like all his race he was innately psychic and his rudimentary senses were reeling. A wave of coldness was leaching into the bay, stifling his awareness and closing off his mind to the glory of the universe. He glanced at his father and saw the cold prickle on his forehead, signalling that the Farseer felt it too, probably more acutely than Manaar did. He remembered his father's warnings of Abomination and understood what that had meant, this cold void was an absence of life, it was the essence of Empty.

A doorway slid up in the far wall and four humans emerged, striding over to them with a confident stride. In the lead was a short female with black hair and rounded features, her eyes were narrow and her build athletic, by human standards. He bore an exotic alien pistol on her hip and her body was covered by a tight bodyglove. It would have been most appealing on another Eldar but on her apish human body it repulsed him. Yet his eyes were drawn to the silver 'I' symbol hanging around her neck, the mark of the Inquisition, an organisation Manaar knew to be wary of. At her side was a burly male with many scars. He wore a carapace breastplate and fitted armour over his legs but his head and arms were bare, revealing tattoos of the human Imperial Guard. His face was stubbled and stocky and he had a red bandanna tied around his forehead. He carried a bulky laser rifle which was attached to his back by a power cable and he appeared to be chewing something, his grizzled jaw working up and down ceaselessly. On the other side was a figure in a red robe, whose face was hidden in shadow but a metal tendril poking over his shoulder proclaimed he was of the ridiculous machine worshipping cult. Yet it was the last one who made Manaar's skin crawl, a woman in a corset-like silver breastplate, with a half-mask over her lower face shaped like a portcullis. She was bald and had an animal's fur draped over one shoulder while her back carried a great broadsword. She radiated nothingness, a Null aura that enveloped the whole area and Manaar instinctively knew this one had no soul: an Abomination indeed.

The party stopped before them and the Inquisitor declared in the human's coarse tongue, "Welcome aboard the Pilgrim's Passage. Koshano, you're late."

Koshano nodded fractionally in a manner a Mon-Keigh would take for begrudging respect, but would be an insult to one who truly grasped the subtleties of the Eldar, as he said in kind, "Inquisitor Vevara, a pleasure as always."

This Vevara bristled as she spat, "Don't mince words, I am not accustomed to being summoned."

Koshano replied smoothly, "So rude, have I not steered you well in the past? You would never have found that Lycramole infestation without my guidance. Your celebrated Exterminatus of the entire Spydarian race owed no small part to my warnings of their growing threat and lest we forget, I told you where your hated rival Inquisitor Zerban could be found."

Vevara sniffed, "True, your advice has been useful. But don't pretend you helped out of the kindness of your heart. Those individuals threatened your race as much as mine. You wanted them eliminated… at no cost to the Eldar."

Koshano smiled mockingly but the humans didn't notice his disdain as he said, "Such a threat looms again, the world of Pascum will soon be lost to your Imperium, unless you act."

Vevara's eyes narrowed as she said, "So your message proclaimed, yet this time you brought a friend. Odd, you usually travel alone."

Koshano waved to Manaar and said, "This is my agent Manaar, he will accompany you to the planet."

"He will not!" Vevara barked testily, "The Ordo Xenos has a wide latitude but to ponce around with an alien will raise questions among my compatriots in the Inquisition. Questions I don't want to answer."

Koshano replied frankly, "Without his presence you will fail, this I have foreseen."

Vevara's lip curled as she hissed, "Damnation, very well if there is no other way I'll put up with it. Who are you and what can you do?"

Manaar bowed as best he could stomach before a Mon-keigh and said, "I am Manaar and I can fly and fight better than anyone you can imagine."

Vevara sniffed, "A warrior, I suppose you may have some uses and an Inquisitorial rosette can smooth over any bother. I am Inquisitor Vevara of the Ordo Xenos and if you play me false I will shoot you without hesitation. Now let me introduce you to the rest."

She waved to the burly warrior and said, "This is Eirk Junat, you can call him Eirk."

The warrior hacked up a gob of black weed and spat on the ground as he said, "Never fought with a Xenos before but you can count on me in a firefight. Unless you try to trick us, then I'll gut you."

"Greetings," Manaar replied neutrally, eyeing the filthy wad of chewed weed on the deck.

Next Vevara waved to the red-robed being and said, "This is Adept Lunix, he's our resident door opener and Cogitator-breaker."

Lunix spoke in a mechanical voice, "He is clean isn't he? This vessel is filthy enough already with human diseases without adding alien microbiology to the mix."

Manaar was faintly insulted as he replied, "I am far cleaner than any of you."

"Good," Lunix stated, "The sheer number of germs I have catalogued on this scow is staggering. How the crew live like this is beyond me. I look forward to learning of your technology, but the Omnissiah warns against trusting aliens, if you stray outside assigned protocols I will have to terminate you."

"At this rate everyone will have to draw lots for the honour," Manaar muttered.

Finally Vevara waved to the Abomination as said, "This is Witchseeker Mortula. Formerly of the Sisters of Silence."

"Hello," Mortula said from behind her half-mask.

Despite the fact that she made his skin crawl Manaar frowned as he queried, "Sister of Silence?"

Mortula replied, "Formerly, it turns out the order wasn't too fond of someone who can't keep their mouth shut."

"Introductions are over," Vevara stated, "We'll show you to a bunk shortly, but first I need information. What exactly are you supposed to do when we get there?"

"Fight and kill," Koshano declared as he held out a small data-crystal, "This is compatible with your technology, within you will find the first step upon the road that will lead you to your quarry."

Vevara snatched the crystal up as she muttered, "You don't always have to be so cryptic, you could just tell me who to shoot."

Koshano replied, "To see the journey and to walk it are two different things."

"Bloody Eldar," Verara muttered none too quietly, "Expecting a straight answer out of you is like expecting an Ork not to fight."

Koshano bowed mockingly as he said, "This concludes our business, I will return to these coordinates when the mission is done."

Vevara replied briskly, "As you wish, go hide and sip Tanna in a safe corner while I do all the dirty work, as usual."

Koshano declared, "Mock me if you will but the fate of a human world rests upon this endeavour. Fail and your precious Imperium will suffer."

Koshano turned to Manaar and declared, "I wish you fair fortunes and good hunting."

Manaar saw his fingers twitching in a manner that communicated a reminder that the Aspect Warrior must seek out his target and eliminate it, no matter the cost. Understanding that the humans were expendable Manaar replied coolly, "I shall see you when this is done."

With that Koshano turned and swept back to the Eagle bomber, jumping into the cockpit with a graceful bound. Everybody stood back as it took off and rotated, then flew serenely away, barely disturbing the air currents in the bay as it did so. Manaar stared longingly after it, wishing he was on board but then the meaty hand of Eirk slapped him on the back as the human declared, "Come on then, its a week to Pascum's orbit from the outer reaches. Better get you to a bunk and unpack your things."

Manaar gritted his teeth as he suppressed the instinctive urge to slice the offending hand off its arm and turned to follow his new companions out of the bay. Already he was displeased by this turn of events and he knew this adventure would not be sung of in the epic myth-cycles of Furta-Rith. As far as he was concerned the sooner this was over the better, then he could forget it ever happened.


	8. Chapter 8

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 8**

Rats had got into the ceiling ducts again. He could hear them scraping against the pipes and cavities between decks, their endless skittering faint but detectable to his genhanced hearing. Even with the background hum of the Warp engines and the thudding of serf's feet nearby he could hear them. It was far from uncommon in Imperial starships for that ubiquitous breed of vermin to have made their nests, wherever mankind roamed the stars rats accompanied them. Still it spoke poorly of the Storm Heralds that they tolerated such vermin in their vessels, but then Sergeant Gotram had come to expect very little from his new Chapter.

The Reiver Sergeant and most of his squad were lounging in their billet, idly passing the time between training drills by honing their weapons and moaning about their lot. Like him they were far from impressed by their reassignment, Reivers held themselves to be an elite breed, tougher faster and more deadly so they were thoroughly disappointed to be inducted into a mongrel by-blow Chapter. Gotram believed the Lord Guilliman should have wiped the Storm Heralds from the galaxy and replaced them with a pure Primaris force, but nobody cared what he thought.

At a low table Brother Hernaa was scratching kill-oaths into bolt-shells with a needle as he muttered, "Where did Silias and Cowan go to get that moonshine, Holy Mars?"  
Gotram shrugged in his Phobos armour and said, "It was only a rumour that the serfs had an illicit still."

Across the billet Brother Ortal was tossing his combat knife up in the air, catching it flawlessly every time, as he said, "It better be true, the only alcohol in this Chapter is insipid ceremonial wine. I need a stiff drink or I'll go mad."  
Gotram rolled his eyes and said, "Glitching cogs, Mikila, Ferhia, see where they've got to."

Two other Primaris stood up and departed the spartan billet, leaving six Reivers alone in their dormitory. It was a bare metal cube, unembellished and plain. Gotram thought it typical of this miserable assignment and growled, "Who did we glitch to get dumped here?"  
"You've found the root directive Sergeant," Hernaa agreed, "Years training on the Red Sands of Mars, countless experimental implantations and ten thousand years in stasis, only to get this inglorious assignment."

Ortal paused in his knife game and remarked, "Yones and his Intercessors don't seem to mind."  
"Yones is an idiot," Gotram declared, "A happy smile and a good aim, that's all he is. His last squad got eviscerated on the Macragge's Honour and he got put in charge of a group of newbies, fresh from their stasis tubes and still with oil glistening behind the ears. No wonder he got dumped with these outdated wretches, even the other Firstborn think they're nobodies. We're Reivers, best of the best, trusted with the most important missions and perilous actions. We deserve a true Primaris Chapter, not these decrepit fossils."

"Can't argue with that," Hernaa concurred, "It's a complete waste of our talents."  
Ortal frowned as he asked, "What do you think of our new Lieutenants?"

Gotram sniffed, "Persion's useless, couldn't tell his exhaust port from his torsion joint. He hasn't a clue what he's doing. That Apothecary is constipated over some past shame and Jediah thinks he's scary but I'd wager he wouldn't last one mission in the Reivers. There's no soul in his eyes, no fires of passion."

Heads nodded but Hernaa paused and remarked, "Is it just me or is it awful quiet out there?" Gotram paused as he focused his hearing and it struck him the background noise of the ship had faded. The engines still rumbled but of the serfs no noise remained, the area was uncommonly quiet. Gotram's hand jerked and his knife was in his grip as he realised the Reivers were alone in this section of the ship. He tried his vox and called, "Silias, Cowan, Ferhia, Mikila: report." Only static came back and Gotram waved the squad to the door. The Reivers were already on alert and followed him out into the corridor, only to find it empty and deserted. Gotram's senses were screaming something was wrong and he waved to the right saying, "Junot, Gadwen, Beveial go right. Hernaa and Ortal with me."

The squad spilt up, three Reivers heading in each direction and Gotram had his knife and bolt pistol ready as he scoured the passage for threats. All his training and experience told him they were in danger and he checked every inch from the polished deckplates to the mesh-pattern roof tiles that hid thick pipes. He was confident no enemy could avoid three Reivers, yet as they advanced they saw nothing but an empty passageway.

It was Hernaa who whispered, "You… you don't think something got on board. Something from the Warp?"  
Gotram's guts fell at the prospect of a Gellar field failure and he instantly tried his vox, "Bridge come in… Bridge. Junot, Gadwen, Beveial… can anyone hear me?"

Washes of static were the only reply and Ortal hissed, "It got them too, a Warp predator took them."  
"Error-shunt-abort," Gotram spat, "Fall-back now!"

Gotram and his two remaining Brothers fell back, retreating before the unknown horror. Frantically the Sergeant tried his vox over and over, but got nothing save static, they were totally cut off. He kept his knife in one hand and his bolt pistol in the other as he swept the bare corridor, watching for the lurking threat. The idea that any foe could take out a squad of Reivers seemed farcical but then they were in the Warp, a realm of nightmares where man was not meant to pass. The slightest fluctuation in the Gellar field could have allowed a macabre being into the ship, a supernatural horror that could tear this ship apart. Despite his scorn for the Storm Heralds in general Gotram fond himself wishing for a few Heavy bolters at his back.

They passed the door to their billet and Hernaa moved to duck inside but Gotram hissed, "No, there's no other way out of there, it's a deathtrap."  
Yet Ortal glanced over their shoulders and said, "Sergeant, the corridor is…"

He didn't get to finish his sentence for as they passed the entrance to their billet the roof tiles exploded over their heads. Gotram had a single second to remember the scratching noises they had heard earlier and realise it wasn't rats after all, then a blue blur fell amongst them. The Reiver Sergeant spun about with all the speed his Sinew Coils allowed but was too slow as a shining smear of light slashed across his thigh, cutting his muscles and sending him staggering to the side. He tried to level his bolt pistol at the indistinct shape but a ceramite clad gauntlet slammed into the nerve cluster in his wrist, numbing his senses and making him lose his grip. Gotram was reeling from this onslaught and before he could recover the shape spun about, a boot extending to catch him behind the knee and sending him crashing to the deck. Then the silver light flashed again and a flare of pain told him his hamstrings had been cut, leaving him flopping helplessly on the floor.

The Sergeant lay in a confused daze, baffled as to how he had been taken apart. The attacker had demolished him with ease, debilitating him before he could even join in the fight. This foe had taken his squad one by one, hunting them with deadly skill and stealth and now it had come to finish off the survivors. But that wasn't the worst part; the worse thing was that he recognised this blur of blue. It was no horror from the Warp, no nightmare of the Empyrean, it was Jediah, the Lieutenant with the soulless eyes.

Gotram could only watch helplessly as Jediah rose from his crouch, Fractal-edged blade in hand. Jediah was fast but Hernaa and Ortal were yet Space Marines and they flung themselves at him with knives flashing. Jediah's face was exposed and he grinned with anticipation as they met blade to blade. The Reiver's had height and numbers on their side but Jediah was wearing full plate and he fought without restraint or hesitation. Gotram could barely follow the exchange of blows as knives flashed and knees and elbows hammered away, landing blows that would have split mortal skulls and shattered ribcages. In moments everybody's blue armour was scored and chipped, the colours marred by furious blows. The Reivers were fighting with all the skill their training permitted but their forms were predictable, following the prescriptive doctrines hammered into them on the red sands of Mars. Whereas Jediah had been fighting Traitor Marines for centuries, he knew moves they couldn't conceive and fought with an adaptive, fluid style that changed second by second. Plus in close-confines the weight of his plate granted him a telling advantage over their light Phobos armour.

Gotram watched aghast as the tip of Jediah's blade penetrated Hernaa's belly, tearing a deep groove into the flesh. The wounding was non-fatal but enough to trigger his Belisarian Furnace. The unique organ responded by disgorging hyper-stimulants and aggression boosters, turning the Reiver into a mindless fanatic. Hernaa threw himself bodily at the Jediah, trying to envelop him in a bear hug, but the smaller Marine dropped his shoulder and twisted, sending the Reiver headfirst into a wall. The Primaris slammed into the bare metal with bone-crunching force, causing him to stagger back, weeping blood from his cracked skull. Before he could recover a boot to his spine sent him again into the wall again and this time he collapsed, groaning on the deck as he keeled over.

Meanwhile Ortal tried to stab Jediah in the back but the Lieutenant blocked the blow with a forearm and then followed with an uppercut that made the Reiver's knees wobble. Instantly Jediah was on him, punching the gut to double him over then elbowing him in the back of the head to send him sprawling to the deck. Before he could think to move Jediah struck, blade stabbing down through the shoulder to ram into the floor. Ortal roared as his back was violated and his other arm tried to reach up to grab the offending blade, but he couldn't twist his arm far enough. He was left pinned to the deck, helpless to move as Jediah turned his attention to the Sergeant.

In the few seconds this had taken Gotram had been left flabbergasted by the unprovoked attack, unable to understand what madness had overtaken Jediah. Yet his hamstrings had already started to knit back together and he crawled towards his bolt pistol, hoping to get a shot off. unfortunately Jediah saw the move and spun about, boot lashing out to smash Gotram in the side of the head as he roared, "Who's in charge?!"

Gotram's head snapped back and blood spilled from his lips. He was battered and reeling but he was able to gargle, "I'll kill you."  
Instantly Jediah's other boot shot out, smashing into Gotram's guts and making him vomit blood as the Lieutenant snarled, "Who's in charge?"

Gotram couldn't speak as he rolled onto his front, trying to get up on his hands and knees. But Jediah's foot slammed down on his shoulder and two hands grabbed his wrist, heaving it upward. Gotram screamed as his arm was wrenched vertically behind his back, sinews tearing and bones grinding against each other as Jediah levered his limb into an agonising position. He thrashed to break free but was unable to break the grip as he cried, "Traitor! Heretic!"

Jediah only increased the pressure, bending the fingers in the hand as he hissed, "Are those your last words?"  
The pain in Gotram's joints was fierce and sharp as he spat, "You attacked fellow Storm Heralds, its unthinkable!"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Jediah snarled as he bent fingers backwards, "I killed many Storm Heralds in the civil war and I enjoyed it."

Gotram could only spit, "You're insane!"  
Jediah jerked the hand, snapping the ceramic laced bones of three fingers as he hissed, "You have seven more fingers and then the arm itself to loose if you don't answer my question: who's in charge?"

Gotram realised then he was beaten, utterly demolished and defeated. Jediah was going to rip it off, Gotram realised, forget dislocation the madman was going to rip the arm off completely. Jediah was more vicious and savage than Gotram had ever imagined, the supposedly superior troops of the Reivers had been outfought and outmanoeuvred by a foe who put their vaunted prowess to shame. With no other options Gotram dropped his head onto the cold floor and whispered, "You are... you're in charge."

Jediah held his arm still for a few more seconds to get the point across, then let go growling, "Don't forget it."

Gotram suddenly rolled as Jediah moved to Ortal and bent to pull his blade free in a spray of blood. Gotram grabbed his bolt pistol in his good hand but hesitated when Jediah hissed, "Not on your best day... and this is not your best day."

Gotram's hearts burned for revenge but he knew Jediah wasn't bluffing, the psychopath would kill him if he tried anything else. Reluctantly he holstered his pistol and grabbed his hand, forcing the broken fingers straight with a wince, as he said, "What do you want... Lieutenant?"

Jediah shook drying blood off his blade and ordered, "Go retrieve your squadmates, they're tied up in a sewage dump two passages along. Then meet me in the training arena. You have a lot to learn."  
Gotram was stunned as he exclaimed, "You attack us and now you want to train us?!"

Jediah turned and fixed him with a cold stare as he hissed, "Your Reivers are soft and sloppy... it is weakness. I don't know who trained you but they understood nothing of the darkness. I will teach you the true meaning of strength, how to hold the darkness close and hone it to a killing edge."

Gotram quailed in the face of those predatory eyes and gulped, "The squad won't follow you, they'll hate you after this."  
"Hatred is good," Jediah whispered with relish, "I shall makes you strong, by the time I'm done with you weaklings you will truly know what it is to hate. Darkness, fire, pain and blood awaits us and I am going to enjoy every second."


	9. Chapter 9

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 9**

Under the red sun Pasdem city went about its business. Millions of people going through the same routines they had since time immemorial. Merchants hawked their wares, bakers baked, drovers moved cattle to slaughterhouses, drivers brought tons of rice and grain into warehouses. Shuttles lifted off from the spaceports and factorums belched thick smoke into the bloody sky. Outside the Genic Council's Laboritorum-domes long queues of people stood patiently, waiting to find out who their children would be assigned to wed, the fact that many of them were still pregnant a piffling detail. On the wide roads cargo-8's and ground-cabs trundled along while on the pavements more traditional nobles lounged in litters bourn on the shoulders of handsome bearers, forcing lesser caste-members out of their way with kicks and shouts to make way.

Odrin sat in a wicker chair, lingering over a steaming cup of coff'a as he watched the city going about its business. He was on the third floor of an exclusive café, a place where deals had been struck and bargains forged for millennia. To his left a wide glassic panel revealed a beautiful vista of the city, the Jade Citadel a vague impression of domes in the distance. Nearer the bronzed floor of the Flesh-Market bustled, the factors selling the product of their breeding to various dignitaries. Here the fruit of Pascum's genic breeding was displayed, the most physically perfect examples of human stock standing proudly on stages waiting for a master or mistress to determine them their future lives. The idea that some of them might not want to become household guards, field workers or Bateman never occurring either to seller or buyer. Odrin's eyes fixed upon an off-worlder, some Imperial functionary negotiating for a distant master. He was trying to buy a pair of courtesans and the notion disgusted Odrin, not for the sale but that the master hadn't bothered to come himself. Surely the distant leach wouldn't appreciate the training and discipline instilled into the stock of Pascum, he wouldn't see past fair skin and alluring bodies to appreciate the keen minds and cunning wits instilled into the courtesans. Those ladies were bound for lives of dreary lechery at the hands of a venal idiot. Yet one more example of Odrin's right to seize power and throw off the Imperium's shackles.

Odrin forced his attention back to his table companions, two men in rich robes who were sat over cups of cooling Coff'a without touching them. The first had the swarthy features of the southern hemisphere, where the Genic council favoured heavier builds. This was Lernah, a noble associate from the distant reaches of the planet who shared Odrin's ambitions. The other had the narrow features and keen spatial awareness of the caste-spacefarers, those assigned to work the orbital defence stations and spacedocks floating over Pascum. His name was Turgo and he was a middling officer, bitter of the advancements he had not received. The pair of them were a part of Odrin's efforts to usurp the Dominus' crown, though they didn't know that, they thought this was some grand revolution to liberate Pascum. Removing the Imperium was indeed part of the plan, but not the point, it was merely a hurdle to be overcome. Still Odrin couldn't hope to rule a planet unsupported, so men and women like this were necessary.

Turgo was speaking in a low voice, "The lower ranks of Galipos Starfort are with us, we now have supporters in every orbital facility. We can start making inroads to the higher ranks."

Odrin replied in a steady voice, knowing the servants had been bred for generations not to hear the conversations of their betters, "No, they are too close to the Dominus, she has spies among their ranks. When the great day dawns it's better to sweep away the Imperial lickspittles wholesale than risk counter-revolutionaries lingering."

Turgo frowned as he commented, "With only the lower ranks on our side resistance will be fierce. The Senior commanders will fight back. It will be bloody work taking the orbitals."

"Acceptable casualties," Odrin demurred, "We can breed replacements soon enough. Now, what of the south?"

Lernah had been recruiting allies in the most remote corners of Pascum and replied, "The noble house of Vindara and the Merchant Guilds in the cities of Linkaea, Madasa and Juntas are sworn to rise at your command."

Odrin's eyes narrowed as he hissed, "What of the Houses of Wanera and Timonr and the Industrial Cartels of the South?"

Lernah's face fell as he answered, "They were not receptive."

"You failed to recruit them?!" Odrin snapped, "You promised me you could turn them!"

Lernah wasn't about to be browbeaten and said, "They are stubborn fools, unwilling to listen to us. The Genic Council's hold on the South has been waning for centuries, too much Ecclessiarchy doggerel poured into their ears. The people are forgetting their Genic purity, sullying themselves with unclean practices and forgetting their place."

Turgo asked, "Perhaps we need a way to turn the people against the Imperium. Another slaughter like Derekes…"

"No," Odrin cut them off, "It's too unpredictable."

Lernah eyed him sullenly as he pointed out, "It worked well enough for you, 'Butcher'."

Odrin glared back as he snapped, "Do you think I wanted to order our own people killed? No, but it had to be. That hag Aleys finally realised she had lost control, that the people were rising against her. She knew how precarious her position was, so when I stepped in and fixed the problem for her, and took all the blame, she was delighted. Her rule was secure and no blame could be laid at her door. I was made First Secretary but it was a gamble, so many things could have gone wrong. We can't chance it again."

The other two looked sullen but Odrin continued, "Remember who we are. Pascum is a proud and sovereign world. We can trace our lineage back to the first colonisation. We survived the Age of Strife alone and the Noctis Aeterna too. Our planet doesn't need the Imperium, we never did. We are a great world and the children of Pascum are inherently better than the riffraff of the Imperium. We are an exceptional people, thanks to our genic superiority."

Lernah muttered, "Damned Imperials, our forefathers should never have bowed to them."

Turgo snorted, "It was hard for our ancestors to refuse when warships sat in orbit proclaiming, 'submit or die'. But now the Imperium is weak and distracted, it's time to throw off the yoke of Terra."

Lernah snorted, "I'll be glad to see the back of them. Why just last month my next Bateman ran off to join the Guard. His place at my feet had been assigned for him since birth and he thinks to flee to the stars!"

Odrin nodded solemnly, "Remember it is not only armies and fleets we battle, but ideas. The notions of random genetic breeding, marrying who you will and seeking life roles other than the one assigned to you must be burnt away. Pascum will be made clean once more, our history demands it. Now go and be ready for my call to rise in rebellion."

They were good words and seemed to satisfy the others. Odrin didn't care for their beliefs but so long as they served his cause he would parrot the expected phrases. Mollified his guests stood up and bowed briefly, leaving him alone at his table. Odrin leaned back in his chair and swallowed his Coff'a, a black and bitter brew of potent caffine, a local delicacy far superior to imported Recaff. He looked across the plaza, over the heads of the vendors plying their stock, to the imposing Arbites Precinct. Its redoubtable walls and many guns looming over the lives of Pascum's people, an unsubtle promise of Imperial retribution. They were another obstacle in Odrin's way, one he had made careful plans to eliminate when the time came.

His thoughts were interrupted as a pair of serving girls placed another Coff'a on the table. Such was an expected action but to his total shock the girls slipped into the vacant chairs across from him. Odrin was outraged by the presumption, how dare such low-caste serviles sit with him. Their attire proclaimed how far their caste was beneath his and even speaking to him was an affront. Outraged he spluttered, "How dare you, I should have you whipped through the streets!"

They should be cowering in fear but bizarrely they didn't seem concerned as the first said, "You're making too much noise brother."

The other added, "The Mother is displeased with you."

Odrin's next words died in his throat and his guts clenched in fear as he realised who he was speaking to. These were no serviles of the cafe, they were agents of a far larger and more sinister organisation, one that had trained and sponsored Odrin, setting him on the path to where he was today. Odrin's rise to power had been no random event; it had been carefully orchestrated by a hidden web of agents, who had steered his path according to the design of an organisation calling itself the Kiith. Odrin owed everything to those shadowy figures, who had placed him where they wanted him to be, and he was in no way prepared to cross them.

Slowly Odrin swallowed as he changed tack, "Sister and sister, I had not expected to see you today. It's been so long since I saw a contact."

The first replied with cold eyes, "The Kiith are everywhere, you know this. We have been keeping an eye on you."

The other added, "We had been pleased with your progress, until recently."

Odrin felt like his neck was in a noose as he said, "I have done exactly as instructed. I have made myself indispensable to the Dominus; I have made the people ready to rise up in every city."

The first didn't seem impressed as she growled, "Your actions draw too much notice, we have had to silence several Imperial spies who caught wind of your conspiracies."

The other added, "The Inquisition knows something is off, an Inquisitor is en-route to investigate."

Odrin's heart clenched in fear, an Inquisitor was the last thing he wanted on the planet, those Imperial watchdogs and spymasters. Fearfully he stammered, "An… an Inquisitor?"

The first confirmed, "She won't be alone, Space Marines are accompanying her."

The statement made Odrin breath out in relief, "Oh, is that what's caused concern? I thought we were in trouble for a second."

The other's lip drew back angrily, revealing teeth that had been filed to points as she spat, "Is this funny to you?"

Odrin shook his head as he explained, "I was there when the Dominus sent for aid, rest assured it has nothing to do with us. The Imperium thinks we are dealing with civilian protests and work-slowdowns. They have no idea of the Kiith's existence."

The first hissed suspiciously, "You are certain?"

Odrin replied with a smile, "If they knew of the Kiith they would be sending a warfleet, not a ceremonial envoy. This is nothing but a sign that my plan is working."

"Your plan?!" the other spat contemptuously, "You grow arrogant and reckless, the Kiith set this plan in motion generations before you were born. We planted the seeds of the One God. We arranged the slaughter at Derekes to foster rebellion in the hearts of the people, even as the Dominus came to trust you as her right-hand man."

The first added, "Do not think yourself indispensable to the cause, no individual is more important than the One God."

Odrin placed his hands on the table as he stated, "Do not take me for a weak fool, I shall rule Pascum when this is done."

"As the public face," the first allowed, "But do not forget who you yet answer to, brother. The Kiith is more than a cause or a banner, we are a family, bound by blood and faith."

"The Mother would be displeased to think you forget your place in the family," the other spat, "She chose you to infiltrate the Dominus' court, she would hate to have to remove you and start again."

Odrin heart grew cold at the thought of that shadowy figure who ruled the Kiith from behind a veil of mystery. Her presence was elusive but her reach was long and she had eyes everywhere. Even he could not dare to cross her and hope to live long. So he said softly, "Tell the Mother all is in hand, the stage is set and the final act is in motion. The royal wedding will be our firebrand to whip the populace into a frenzy; when it falls apart the people will rise up against the Imperium in outrage. The Imperial yoke will be cast off, the Bassail dynasty will crumble and I shall ascend to the Dominus's place. As the Mother's loyal and obedient servant, of course. We shall own this planet and nobody will even know the Kiith exist."

The first glared as she hissed, "If this works you shall rule the day, but remember we own the night. If you think to forsake your family once you have your hands on the crown then your reign will be shorter than you can imagine."

The other added, "There are worse things than the Mother's wrath. Should Grandfather think you have betrayed us…"

Odrin's mouth went dry at the warning, bad enough to have the subtle and cunning leader of his organisation upset at him but her brutal counterpart was another thing entirely. Odrin had seen the tattered remnants of those who failed displayed as a warning for the youngest recruits to see. None could look upon those grizzly murals made of eviscerated bodies and not be terrified of the one referred to only as 'Grandfather'. Despite their innocuous use of familial titles it was clear that any who betrayed the trust of their hidden masters would meet the most horrific and violent of ends.

With that the pair of women stood up and left Odrin to ponder on his fate. He stared at his cooling Coff'a and fretted, keenly aware of the tightrope he was walking. On one side the unthinking Imperials would shoot him, on the other his hidden allies would do far worse than that. Unfortunately it was too late for him to back out and run, the only option was to continue. He had to overthrow the Dominus and cast the Imperium off Pascum. His plans must succeed else his death was certain.


	10. Chapter 10

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 10**

The Abomination knew how to handle a sword, Manaar would give her that much. In her hands the greatsword swept through a complicated series of katas, dancing through forms and styles with consummate skill. It seemed odd so small a creature could wield so weighty a sword without strain, the heft of the blade should have made it cumbersome but Mortula used the entirety of her body as a counter, dancing with the length of the weapon in perfect harmony. Manaar would have suspected some form of augmentation in her body, if not outright genetic manipulation, had he not been subtly checking.

The former Sister of Silence was in a padded room, fitted with cushioning foam to the walls and mannequins standing on wooden poles. It was surprisingly graceful, for Mon-Keigh architecture, lacking their usual assortment of hideous skulls and gaudy gold embellishments. Still the floor vibrated with the strain of the ship's plasma drives, pushing it through space on a comet trail of energetic wash. This part of the tramp scow seemed to have been given over to the Inquisitorial retinue, for none had intruded into their privacy. Food and other items had been left at the door but none of the crew dared violate the sanctity of an Inquisitor's abode, for which Manaar was grateful.

For two days the ship had ploughed into the inner system, sinking into the star's gravity well with ponderous inevitability. The Inquisitor herself had retreated into her chambers, leaving Manaar alone with the hired guns. Manaar hadn't rated them worthy warriors, deeming them slovenly and wasteful, lacking the skill and grace of the Eldar yet watching Mortula was forcing him to revise that opinion. The female was dancing like a Howling Banshee in a masterful display of swordsmanship he would have thought beyond a Mon-Keigh. Manaar had killed many of their kind in recent years, even a pair of Space Marines, one loyal to their Corpse God the other to the Ruinous Powers, but he was uncertain how he would fare against this one.

It was not merely her skill with the blade that gave him pause, it was her Null Aura. That chill void of nothingness where her soul should be. Simply standing near her was uncomfortable and he was certain a true Seer would find her presence a torment. Yet he had begun to chart the ebb and flow of her ability, measuring its range and potency. Her Emptiness had limits, it diminished greatly over range and when she slept, hints that her deviant ability was a product of her conscious mind. Manaar did not understand how this could be, nor how she had avoided being drowned at birth by her parents, but he was already starting to see a way to defeat her. The female's power only suppressed psychic potential rather than removing it. Manaar was confident he could stand next to her and yet trigger his Warp-jump generator, granting him an edge in combat, though jumping into her presence would be troublesome, he was likely to bounce off and appear somewhere unexpected, possibly inside a wall or a hundred metres in the air.

Mortula suddenly leapt and her greatsword swung about, meeting a mannequin with a lateral slice. The blade's edge flared with a haze of lighting and the dummy fell apart, flaming blue wisps escaping where it's form had been violated. Mortula came to rest in a low stance, sword held diagonally across her body in a defensive posture. Manaar clapped slowly in begrudging respect, even though he wanted to depart as swiftly as possible.

Mortula rose from her crouch and sheathed her sword in a long scabbard over her back. Her silver armour concealed most of her form but her hands and forehead glistened with sweat, signs of great exertion. She wandered over to the Aspect Warrior, who wore his red suit of cloth with casual ease. Her presence was loathsome but he forced an insincere smile onto his face as he said, "Impressive, are all of your kind so skilled?"

Mortula replied, "Some, not all. There are many specialities in the Witchseekers, many schools of training. Only a few attain true Blademastery."

Manaar cocked his head and remarked, "I'm surprised they let you go."  
Mortula snorted, "The Inquisition has its ways and I couldn't keep my mouth shut, throne knows I tried but all those vows seem so pointless when your days are numbered. Strange, I was at peace with dying in battle but this…"

Manaar frowned as he stated, "I don't understand."  
Mortula touched her skull with a pale finger and said, "There's something growing in here, a cancer, right where they can't get at it. Imperial science is advanced but there are somethings they can't treat. Trying to remove it will kill me. When I heard the news I wept for days."

Manaar asked in surprise, "You can cry? You have…"  
"Emotions?" Mortula snorted in derision, "Yes, I can feel things, mostly resentment for why everybody hates me it has to be said. Joining the Order was a comfort, at least they told me why I was different. I was content with my lot, until this happened, then I just couldn't see the point in keeping silent anymore."

Manaar has baffled as to how Mon-Keigh could live with their mortality hanging over them every second, the Eldar suffered no such flaws in their physiques. Lacking any other words he asked, "How long?"  
Mortula smiled coldly as she said, "A Medicae told me I had six months to live, that was a year and a half ago. I've beaten the odds already but I won't for much longer."

Manaar had no idea how to respond but thankfully was saved as Eirk stuck his head in and called, "Inquisitor wants a word!" Manaar hurriedly departed, leaving the Abomination to her sorrow and feeling her loathsome aura diminish. He set off down a bare metal corridor, passing various common rooms, armouries and bedrooms set aside for the Inquisitorial retinue. As they walked he eyed his companion, who yet again was chewing some noxious weed. The human was scarred badly and bore many tattoos over his burly arms, signs of terrible battles and vicious fights. Manaar could read them like a book and judged the man brute muscle, the kind of fighter who believed that victory was determined by who could take the most punishment.

Eirk saw Manaar's glance and quipped, "Impressed eh?"  
"Not really," Manaar muttered.

For some reason the human laughed, he seemed to find everything Manaar said a source of amusement, and he crowed, "Check this one: crest of the Harakoni Warhawks. I was in the 239th, the best of the best, most feared of the feared: Harakonria an tellika regala!"

Manaar replied with no enthusiasm, "How nice for you."  
"Wanna hear how I got this scar?" Eirk asked, pulling up a sleeve to reveal a jagged mark.  
"Definitely not," Manaar muttered.

"Ha, you're funny," Eirk snorted, "It was on Angle's Rest, a dreary world with a dreary people. Let me warn you, never accept an invite to their local dramatic plays, they go on for days. Anyway a Chaos cult opened a portal and unleashed a Daemon so the 239th was sent in to put it down. Worst fight of my life, piling up dead mates for cover from the whips and the barbs, I'll never forget the way it laughed with joy as it killed us. Three hundred of the Emperor's best went in, seven came out: seven. But Throne bless 'em they did it, they banished the Daemon and closed the portal. Heroes were made that day, heroes I say. Shame the Inquisition weren't so pleased. We'd seen something we weren't supposed to and the top bosses ain't keen on people knowing too much about Chaos. So me and the lads had a choice, sign up with the Ordo Xenos or get a bolt round to the back of the head."

Manaar remarked curiously, "Xenos, from what I know of your tongue that means 'Alien'."  
Eirk waved a meaty hand as he said, "The Ordo's aren't set jurisdictions, the Inquisitors go where they will. If they see a Heresy, they go for it."

Their path had taken them down the corridor and they found Adept Lunix, distastefully holding up a rag as if it planned to bite him. The Adept held a small plasma-torch and carefully used it to incinerate the rag. Manaar lifted his eyebrow as they walked past and asked, "Why do you do that?"  
Lunix replied, "I was cleaning my quarters and must dispose of the infected material."

Eirk chuckled, "Lunix has a bit of thing about germs."  
Lunix bristled as he spat, "The human body sheds approximately 30,000 skin cells per hour and these attract microscopic dust mites. You breathe in filth! Most humans are content to squat among their own dead flesh, but not I, the machine demands purity!"

Manaar shared the machine-man's disgust but as they walked off Eirk chortled, "Lunix has his ways but he's handy in a tight corner. When you need a cogitator prised open there no one better. He got caught reverse-engineering Xenos tech, the Mechanicus officially teaches that's Heresy but some of them disagree. Lunix thinks alien gear can be useful, a big no-no to the Cogboys, but the Inquisition ain't so fussy."

Manaar was growing tired of this brute's chatter but thankfully they had reached the Inquisitor's door and here they parted ways. He didn't bother to knock as he pushed his way inside, finding a pleasantly decorated chamber. There were bookcases filled with ageing scrolls, a weapon's rack with a collection of knives and pistols set alongside the customary shrine to the Mon-Keigh corpse-god. Passable rugs covered the floors and a varnished desk was set at knee height, with a long quill set in an inkpot and a sand bowl for drying. It was atypically refined, for human tastes, and it even smelled better than average. Everything was perfectly in proportion, everything in its set place and one glance told Manaar the owner of this chamber liked to be in control of everything around her.

Inquisitor Vevara was sitting cross-legged at the low desk in a green robe that billowed around her and her hair was unbound to fall down her back. She waved her guest to be seated and Manaar lowered himself gracefully, knowing her appearance would have been carefully sculpted, though to what goal eluded him. Vevara waited for him to sit down then spoke, "So… explain why I shouldn't shoot you right now."

Manaar knew he was being tested and answered, "You told Koshano you would work with me."  
Vevara replied coolly, "I tell him a lot of things, that doesn't make any of them true."

Manaar noted how much more poised and confident she was without the Farseer around and guessed she disliked how he would always be ten steps ahead of her. Now she was in her element and wanted to exert her dominance. Manaar could have taken offence but chose not to, the petty games of Mon-Keigh were beneath him. He chose to speak the truth, since a lie would take more of an effort, "Koshano told you why, without me you will fail."

"And I am to simply take his word at face value?" Vevara snapped.  
"You have before," Manaar ventured, "Why doubt him now?"

"The Ordo Xenos are not fools," Vevara hissed, "Every lead Koshano gave me was meticulously checked and checked again. I spent months verifying the truth before acting. But this time he gives me no warning at all, merely vague prophecies of impending doom and you."  
Manaar cocked his head and said, "You think he would trick you."  
Vevara snorted, "I think he lives and breathes for the long-con. He feeds me juicy titbits to ease my guard then slips an assassin into my ranks, thinking I will accept you without question."

Manaar shook his head and said, "Your paranoia is laughable, you see knives in every shadow."  
"It's not paranoia when they're really after you," Vevara affirmed.

"Then you must take my word when I say you are not my target," Manaar professed.  
Vevara smiled broadly as she said, "So you have a target, a specific target you are charged with dispatching."

Manaar cursed his slip of the tongue, she had goaded him into revealing too much. Reluctantly he confessed, "Yes, there is one on the planet that needs to die. For the Craftworld Furta-Rith's sake, this individual must be removed from the Skein."  
"Why?" Vevara asked pointedly.  
"Koshano alone knows," Manaar answered, "What did he tell you?"

Vevara glanced at the papers on her desk as she said, "Talk of a shadowy organisation fostering rebellion on Pascum. Conspiracies and whispers in the dark, not much to go on but he's given me a few names to investigate."  
Manaar spread his hands and said, "Then our goals are compatible, you need to uproot a conspiracy, I need to kill my target. We need not fight each other."

Yet Vevara's eyes narrowed as she said, "Yet we return to the thorny problem: how can I trust you?"  
Manaar breathed deeply then revealed his secret, "Because I despise you, your entire race and your filthy presence among the stars. If I had any other options open to me then I would have killed you all and fled. The only reason I am still here is that I must be here."

Vevara was still for long moments then said, "I am convinced, I smelled the loathing on you the second I laid eyes on you. If you could leave then you would have left already. You need me to complete your mission, as it seems I need you."

Manaar nodded slightly as he uttered, "So we are stuck with each other."  
"For today," Vevara allowed, "I suggest you return to your chambers and do whatever it is you do to prepare. I shall summon you when we make orbit."

Manaar didn't bow but rose smoothly, intending to leave and not look back. Yet as he stood up the Inquisitor's hand moved slightly, in a perfect rendition of the Eldar gesture conveying watchful mistrust. Manaar gulped as he realised this one understood some of the subtleties of Eldar speech, far more than he had given her credit for. In a flash he grasped that she must have seen the secret message Koshano had left him and understood what it meant. Indeed she must have deduced his mission before he even revealed it to her. As he left he revised his opinion of this one, she was far more cunning and dangerous than he had believed, he would have to watch his back if he was to survive in her company for much longer.


	11. Chapter 11

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 11**

The red sun was having a strange effect upon his armour, the tinted light shining upon his arms and chest and making the hue seem wrong. His blue colours had shifted to a deep midnight navy, with a purple sheen when he moved. Persion didn't like it, it reminded him of the heraldry of the hated Night Lords, a Legion his Chapter had clashed with too many times over the millennia for him to feel anything other than visceral loathing for. Still there wasn't anything to be done, they had arrived on Pascum and would simply have to bear the ignominy.

Around Persion the Storm Heralds were busy disembarking from their Thunderhawk, the three squads forming up in lines. Meanwhile a Thunderhawk Transporter was dropping a pair of Repulsor tanks from its drop claws, the hovercraft floating on a cushion of Anti-grav fields. Persion eyed the machines warily, distrusting the invention and innovation that had gone into their design. Part-tank, part-APC and part-skimmer, covered in enough guns to make an Ork feel it had sufficient Dakka, they were ridiculous to his eye. Persion was firmly convinced the damned things couldn't hold enough ammo to last more than five minutes in battle and with all their bizarre technologies would surely break down so often as to be almost useless. He would have preferred a respectable Rhino APC or in a pinch a Razorback, though at only a few thousand years old that design was still considered unproven to many traditionally minded Space Marines.

Persion shook off his contemplation as the squad leaders approached, no, his squads he reminded himself uncomfortably. Before him Sergeants Yones, Zeax and Gotram lined up, their own plates shimmering in the wan light. Apothecary Memnos was there too, his white plates looking like he was covered in a film of red blood under the sunlight. Beyond them the starport of the Capital city bustled, shuttles constantly landing or taking off as they carried civilians around the globe or into orbit. Further out the city itself lay open and inviting, awaiting the arrival of the Space Marines, but first they had to make sure all was in order.

Persion opened his mouth to address them but before he could speak Zeax muttered, "Can we start?"  
Persion sighed, "I was just getting to that, are all the squads ready?"

Sergeant Yones, the looming Intercessor barked, "Ready and accounted for, sir!"  
Gotram winced as he hissed, "Not so loud."  
Yones grinned teasingly as he spoke in a booming tone, "What's the matter Reiver, hungover?"  
Gotram snapped, "My squad's been on high combat alert since we entered the system."

That was news to Persion, he hadn't seen the Reivers since Jediah had promised to handle the matter. They had disappeared into the bowels of the ship, ostensibly on training duties. It had made Persion's life a lot easier, he'd managed to get the other two squads to work together, but he was concerned about what effect it had made on the Reivers. Gotram looked haggard and worn, with weary lines on his face and his eyes were red from constantly being on guard.

Persion stared at him and asked, "Sergeant how is your squad coping under Jediah?"  
Gotram's eyes were filled with fraught tension as he blurted, "He attacks us without warning, day in, day out. We don't dare go anywhere alone, we have to travel in packs and still he seems to outnumber us. He's always in the shadows and the ducts. His eyes… his eyes always watching. We don't dare sleep, or take our armour off and I can't think beyond the next five minutes for trying to anticipate where he'll from. Red Sands… here he comes, sweet God-Emperor don't let him have heard that."

Persion spied Jediah swaggering down the ramp of the Thunderhawk, seemingly unperturbed by the long journey from the warp-jump point. Persion had known Jediah for decades and seen him fight but never suspected he could break the will of a Primaris Marine. It belatedly occurred to him he hadn't really seen much of Jediah on his own and exactly what sort of things he was capable of when Captain Toran or Chaplain Furion weren't around to reign him in. Jediah hailed a Repulsor and jumped within, without bothering to address the party. Persion eyed Gotram and said, "Better follow him, you don't want to make him angry."

Gotram cast one last harried glance at the gathering then jogged away, leading his Reivers into the Repulsor. Meanwhile Zeax declared, "I call the other one, my squad aren't walking all that way lugging Heavy Bolters."  
"As you will," Persion sighed resigning himself to walking, "We will be marching before you so keep it parade perfect."

Zeax had already moved off and mounted the other transport but Yones declared, "Cheer up Lieutenant, it's a nice day for a walk."  
Persion rolled his eyes at that but said, "Let's go, but remember we're only here to cow the natives back into line. Try to look impressive and don't yawn too obviously if you get bored."

The Intercessors formed up in two rows of five with Persion, Memnos and Yones in the lead. Behind them the Repulsors drifted into position, their turbines thrumming at the lowest ebb as they proceeded at a relative snail's pace. As the commander Persion led them from the landing field, marching with the distinctive crumping stomp of a parade march while the others followed in his wake. Behind them the Thunderhawks lifted off in blasts of downdraft, rising above the field before screaming up and away, the pilots burning for orbit with their throttles jammed into the red as was traditional. Persion felt hot jet wash buffet his head but kept on marching, not letting the wind break his step. As they approached the edge of the landing grounds a guard of local constables jerked to attention, their jaws falling as they spied the Transhumans bearing down on them. An officer in gold braiding swallowed nervously to address them but Persion strode past him without pause. Protocols be damned, he intended to get this over with as quickly as possible.

The constables looked at each other then leapt onto motor-powered bikes and set off to clear the roads before them. The Space Marines strode ceaselessly along, passing various roadblocks and checkpoints, where local law enforcement held back the traffic to allow the Storm Heralds passage. Many civilians were protesting the interruption to their day, shouting and waving fists at the constables but all fell silent as eight-foot tall genhanced warriors march by, their bolters and knives gleaming. Men went wide-eyed at the sight, more than a few making sketchy attempts at forming the Imperial Aquila. Children started crying or trying to rush out to touch the Space Marines while frantic mothers pulled them close and whispered at them to be silent. Persion was reassured by none of this, he had grown accustomed to mortals meeting Astartes with awe, religious fervour or feigned indifference and bluster but this was different, this was fear. The people of this city were afraid of the Storm Heralds and the reason they had come, which boded ill tidings for what may lay ahead.

Persion heard Yones remark, "Cowing civilians into line, is this what it's like to be in a Chapter?"  
Persion belatedly remembered the Primaris had participated in the Crusade before joining the Storm Heralds and had only worn the spiral in a starburst for a few weeks. Sternly the Lieutenant informed him, "We rarely have time for ceremonial envoys, most of our time is spent training or in battle."

"Really?" Yones quipped with a grin, "I heard the Storm Heralds spent most of our time lounging around the Saint Karyl Trail, sitting with our feet up and not straying too far from home."  
Persion caught the tone in his voice and realised the Sergeant was trying to engage in friendly banter, rather than undermine him, and replied with a smile, "Hardly, there's Orks in the Serrati Stellas, Psybrids festering in their nests, pirates raiding the pilgrim convoys, Traitor Legion warbands roaming at will, rebellions, warp-incursions and that's not to mention the expeditions we send ranging out into Segmentums Tempestus and Solar. There's barely a day goes by without some threat or another encroaching on our protectorates."

Memnos inquired, "What of yourself, did life in the Crusade allow much time for parading?"  
Yones sighed, "Truth be told I was in a rear-line unit. There were thousands of Primaris in the Primus fleet alone, all vying for recognition. My unit spent most of its time in space, clearing out derelicts and hulks of alien threats. Our biggest action was the retaking of the Macragge's Honour, before we ran into you lot of course."

"Don't remind me," Persion muttered remembering how disastrously the Storm Herald's first meeting with the Indomitus Crusade had gone. Yones had been there, playing a part but Persion didn't hold that against him. The Intercessor's squad had been lost soon after, leaving him to rebuild a unit of fresh recruits, straight out of the stasis tubes. Punishment enough in Persion's opinion, in any case it was hard to dislike the cheerful Sergeant.

He turned his eyes outwards, seeing the fearful crowds watching them pass with silent glowers. They were entering deeper into the city and he noted the mix of Imperial architecture and local buildings, the soaring towers and brooding bulk of the former set against the sweeping domes and graceful minarets of the later. Word must have raced ahead of them for people were hanging out of windows and crowding in doorsteps, jostling to get a view of the Emperor's Finest as they marched past. Notably none of them were cheering or praying, as mortals were prone to do when seeing Space Marines for the first time. They weren't throwing rocks either but this reception was troubling indeed.

Persion felt an uncomfortable urge to take up his Friction Axe but forced his hand still as he said, "Something's off, they aren't happy to see us."  
Memnos commented, "Maybe it's something to do with the last time the Chapter visited."

"You've been here before?" Yones asked.  
"Not I," Memnos replied, "Nor any Brother for five hundred years, I checked the records. The last time the Chapter was here was to fight an invasion by the vile Traitor Vorshaan."

"Who?" Yones inquired.  
"A tale for another time," Persion told him, "Suffice to say he was a Night Lord who plagued this region for centuries, till Captain Toran slew him. Anyway, we saved this planet, why do they resent us?"

"Probably because in the aftermath we decided to convert the population to our own version of the Imperial Creed," Memnos muttered.  
"A practice we've since abandoned," Persion hastily interjected, "The Storm Heralds are done with proselytising."

Their march had brought them through the city and they found themselves entering a wide plaza, which sat under the shadow of a towering, needle-like monument. Beyond that were the wide and thick walls of a fortified palace, made of sweeping green domes and elaborate spires. Persion wasn't much given to aesthetics but recognised a beautiful construction when he saw one, surely one that would have made a mortal stop and gape. Far more interesting to his eye however was the thickness of its walls, the number of void shield projectors lurking among the domes and the cunning placement of gun towers and pill-box blisters. Surely this place would be well-defended and hard to storm, a respectable fortress by any measure.

Standing at the wide gates were a party of mortals, sheltering from the sun under palm fronds held by muscly servants. Among them Persion recognised a wizened crone, bound within the confines of a life-support throne which floated on a cushion of anti-grav motors. The decrepit woman was burrowed through with tubes and drip-lines and her head bore a gaudy ceremonial crown encrusted with jewels, but she was recognisably Aleys Bassail, the Lord Governor of Pascum.

Persion waved the convoy to a halt and stepped forward alone to address Aleys by reciting the speech he'd been given, "Hail Lord Governor, I am Persion of the Storm Heralds. On behalf of Chapter Master Phalros I offer the hand of Brotherhood to your noble household."

Aleys nodded in welcome, nearly toppling the crown off her skull as she replied, "Hail warriors of the God-Emperor, on behalf of the people of Pascum we welcome you to our fair world and offer you shelter and succour for your stay."

Persion hadn't really thought much about what to say next so said, "We, thank you. We will be coming inside, just as soon as we find a place to park our vehicles."  
Aleys waved a hand like a skeletal claw as she demurred, "Let the serviles worry about petty details, come and meet my aides. Here, this is my heir Goddun and my daughter Otlie."

Persion beheld an adolescent boy with a face full of fear, lacking in muscles or the callouses of hard training. He looked more like a bookish scribe than the heir to a dynasty that had ruled a planet for millennia and Persion instantly judged he would never survive the Chapter's selection trials, let alone the stern training and gene-forging of a Space Marine. Next to him was a girl half his age, with a fiery expression on her face, her dark skin blushing not with fear but ire and hostility. She looked ready to challenge him to a fistfight, even though she was barely taller than his knees.

Persion nodded vaguely, not giving his thoughts away but Aleys continued, "And this is my First Secretary and right-hand man, say hello Odrin."  
A man with an arrogant face and cunning eyes looked up at Persion and said, "Greetings Space Marine, I have been eagerly expecting your arrival."


	12. Chapter 12

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 12**

The Summer Ballroom was vast, able to fit hundreds of souls within its marble walls with ease. The soaring windows let copious amounts of red light inside that shone upon the polished floor like a lake of ruby wine. Massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling on thick cables, each one a complex knot of golden threads and jewels that blazed with a hundred electro-candles, light dancing on the reflective gems to make them appear on fire. Thick pillars lined the walls, rising to rounded arches quite unlike the sharp angles of Late Gothic architecture. The floor was laden with rounded tables, piled high with sweetened meats and rare fruits and alcoholic nectars, that filled the air with an overpowering aroma of fermented sugar.

Persion didn't like it, his genhanced senses were overloaded with the scents of the feast, clingy smells coating the insides of his nostrils with gooey residue. He wished he could don his helmet and cut off the scent with recycled air but that would send entirely the wrong message. The Lieutenant had been invited to a ceremonial feast and hadn't known how to politely refuse, so had reluctantly attended. At first he had assumed it was to welcome the Storm Heralds to Pascum but he been informed it was to formally introduce the Governor's heir to his new fiancé, which for some reason seemed to be important to the locals. Persion had brought Yones and Memnos along for moral support, the notion of bringing Jediah, Gotram or Zeax had made his guts clench in dread so he'd left them with the squads. Truthfully he thought they'd got the better end of the deal.

Around the three Space Marines hundreds of pampered nobles and merchant princes mingled, not letting the towering Transhumans interrupt their fun. Men were dressed in flowing robes, tied tight around the waist but with flaring shoulders and high collars. The material was mostly black but decorated with writhing dragons and heraldic beasts, denoting some social order amongst them. Women wore brighter colours with floral designs, the dresses were diminutive in form but favoured hanging sleeves that dropped below their knees. Their hair was braided upwards, rising into elaborate displays of swirls and knots that competed with their rivals for ridiculous impracticality. Together the crowd ate and drank, they laughed and whispered behind each other's backs and they danced in clouds of plumage. Half the ballroom's length was bare so the rich and powerful could prance about in long lines and circles, moving to a rhythm belted out by a band of musicians who plucked lutes in a corner. The Space Marines were drawing a lot of sly glances but no one tried to approach them, if the crowd shared the common folk's resentment of the Astartes they were disguising it behind a veil of polite disinterest.

Persion glowered over the heads of the crowd but his brooding was interrupted as Yones said, "Pass the salt."

Persion looked left to see the Intercessor tucking into a plate of sweet meats. It seemed bizarre to look upon the giant Primaris holding a small Porcelain plate in his Ceramite gauntlets, picking up braised meat with a tiny fork. Persion frowned as he asked, "Do what?"

Yones waved his fork and said, "Salt, pass the salt."

Persion was so bemused he picked up a small cellar from the table and passed it over as he asked, "Why are you eating that muck?"

"It's not too bad with seasoning," Yones replied, "Besides someone told me to take every opportunity to fill up, else we'll be living on Synthi-gruel."

Persion's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he probed, "This 'someone' wouldn't happen to be Champion of Third Company, would he?"

"He might be," Yones replied with a mouthful of food.

"Don't start copying Novak," Persion sighed, "One loudmouth is enough."

Yones swallowed his morsel and then asked, "Does that mean you'll be sticking to Synthi-gruel?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Persion allowed as he picked up a morsel in his hand and bit into it. As he expected it was unbearably sweet, but still better than standard rations, it was hard to imagine anything tasting worse.

As he chewed Memnos muttered, "Look at this lot, dancing like there is nothing wrong. You'd hardly know the galaxy is aflame."

Yones sniffed, "Never underestimate the ability of the ruling classes to ignore a problem, so long as they think someone else can deal with it. Useless pampered songbirds, if Orks invaded they'd probably not admit to any danger until the Greenskins were battering down their door."

Persion heard their words but countered, "You underestimate them, these people aren't here to dance. I've seen enough of these sort of things to know this so-called party is nothing but an excuse to plot and intrigue. Even now this lot will be making deals and betraying them, allegiances will be shifting and power blocs vying for supremacy. Everyone here is looking to advance themselves over their rivals and they all know it. Behind every vapid smile will be a broken promise, every insincere compliment will be a cover for a cunning scheme."

Yones lifted an eyebrow as he asked, "You seen a lot of parties?"

"It's the same the galaxy over," Persion sighed, "Captain Toran is fond of saying the collective Imperial Departmentos and Adepta act less like a government and more like a summit of warring tribes."

The others nodded at Persion's declaration, agreeing with his sentiment, yet unexpectedly another voice cut in "You're in my way." Persion frowned as he looked down, then leaned over to peer almost directly at his own feet. Standing before him was a short girl, with an irritated expression. Persion recognised her as the Governor's daughter, Otlie Bassail. Normally nobody could take a Space Marine unawares but she had not registered as a threat to his subconscious and so passed unremarked. She was glaring up at him with eyes like chips of flint and Persion could not help but notice she eschewed the floral dresses and wore a khaki suit, with small but military grade boots that were tapped with plasteel toes. Nearby was a harried looking maid, whose face told a tail of lengthy and bitter arguments over her attire.

Persion stares at the girl and growled, "Do you know who I am?"

Otlie glared up at him and sneered, "You're the one doing a excellent impression of a roadblock."

Out of the corner of his eye Persion saw Yones hiding a chuckle at the sight of a Transhuman giant being faced down by a girl no more than eight Terran years old and the Lieutenant stated, "Now see here little lady."

"Don't talk down to me!" Otlie snapped, "I'm no lady, I am a soldier."

"A soldier," Persion queried disbelievingly, "Does your mother know about this?"

"Which one?" Otlie snapped back, "My Genic mother is a wizened old crone, the woman who bore me ran off the moment she got paid and the endless succession of maids want to dress me up as doll. I wont have it, I'm training to join the Guard as an officer. I will be a General one day."

Yones was going red as he fought to suppress his laughter and Persion said, "Don't you have a responsibility to obey your family?"

"I have a higher responsibility to fight for the God-Emperor," Otlie snapped, "It is the duty of all His citizens to take up arms in defence of His realm. You want someone to sit at home and get fat then talk to my brother, useless waste of skin that he is."

"Your brother?" Persion queried, "The one whose getting married?"

Otlie snorted, "Yes him, not that he's happy about it. He doesn't want to get wedded, not to Proam's scheming minx at least. He's got no interest in ruling Pascum, all he loves is books. She'll be running the government before you know it."

"You don't approve," Persion asked.

"My approval is as irrelevant as your chatter," Otlie hissed, "Are you going to move or am I going to have to make you move?"

Persion had no idea how to respond to the spitefull ball of vitriol glaring up at him. He could break her with one hand, even step on her and squish her with his weight, but instead he moved to one side and allowed her to pass. Otlie stomped off the fretful maid in tow as Yones chortled, "That was priceless."

Persion glared at him as he snapped, "If you breath one word of this to Novak you'll be guarding latrines for the rest of your days."

He turned to speak to Memnos but to his surprise the Apothecary was talking to someone else. It was that man with the cold eyes, Odrin and a woman in black, whose eyes looked like chips of ice in her flawless face. Persion listened as the woman remarked, "Such magnificent workmanship, the reinforced bone structure, the sculpted musculature. I had heard of the Astartes but I had no idea Terra's Genic breeding program was so advanced."

Memnos replied sternly, "You proceed from a false assumption, Astartes are not born we are chosen. Uplifted and gene-forged in puberty by the Emperor's benevolence and wisdom."

"Post-natal transfiguration and gene-resplicing?" the woman mused putting a gloved hand to her dark lips then pronounced her judgement, "Painful."

"You have no idea," Persion declared as he joined the conversation.

Odrin smiled but his eyes held no warmth as he said, "Ah the noble Lieutenant, I was hoping to speak to you. May I introduce Matriarch Tyvis, of the Genic Council."

Tyvis turned to Persion and questioned, "What happened to your hand?"

Persion lifted his right arm which was augmetic from the elbow down and proudly declared, "Lost it in battle."

Tyvis tutted, "Didn't you think to replace it with a vat-grown replicae?"

Persion retorted in offense, "An Astartes does not hide his wounds, he wears them proudly as badges of courage and sacrifice."

Tyvis snorted, "Foolish bravado, my savants could weave a replacement indistinguishable from your original, right down to the genetic level."

It seemed Memnos' professional curiosity was peeked for he asked, "Truly? How would you overcome Stem cell mutation and telomere differential between the cloned tissue and the host?"

"Child's play," Tyvis sneered, "The Genic council overcame such piffling details long before the Imperium found us."

"Interesting," Memnos pondered, "Your gene-tech must be a wonder of Archetoech."

Tyvis replied smugly, "Many a Mechancius Genator petitions to examine our most ancient devices. Though few meet our stringent criteria, only the most learned and respectful of Savants may enter our domes. You strike me as such a one, you should come and view our work first-hand."

Persion suspected she was more interested in Memnos' gene-forged body than his mind, the wonders of the Emperor's gene-craft had never been surpassed in ten thousands years, even Primaris were merely an extension of the Astartes design. Persion shook his head and said, "That is not our mission here."

Odrin looked up and asked, "What is your mission, many want to know."

Persion informed him, "We are here to support the Bassail Dynasty and make sure the Emergency Tithe is paid."

Odrin lifted an eyebrow as he mused, "So you won't be laying waste to our cities or trying to convert us to your creed. You are merely here to remind us of our master's lash?"

Persion refuted that, "We are here to support the Emperor's appointed Governor. If that means standing at her shoulder or attending a wedding then we shall do so."

"Well, that is fortuitous," Odrin replied, "Viscount Proam would be outraged if anything untoward happened to his daughter's pair-bonding."

Persion's eyes drifted over the crowd to where a rotund man was laughing among a crowd of flatterers, his many chins wobbling as he downed a glass of some sweet nectar and his lackeys tittering vapidly. Persion judged this a man used to getting his own way, so rich and powerful none would dare say no to him. If what he'd heard about the weakness of the Bassail heir was correct then this man would soon be running the planet, through his daughter, and the Viscount seemed to know it to be true.

Persion muttered, "He looks like a man with good reason to be happy."

Odrin affirmed, "Yes, weddings are cause for celebration on Pascum, royal weddings doubly so. The Genic council plans each union with meticulous detail and planning, screening bloodlines to perfection."

The children of the Governor made Persion doubt that assertion and he suspected this Genic Council might be exaggerating their prowess. He could practically hear Furion harping in his ear that no amount of tinkering with genes could replace a warrior's heart or indomitable spirit. The will required to become Astartes could not be bred, which was why only one in a hundred aspirants survived to claim the lauded rank of Brother.

Persion noted the man had no companion and needled, "Were you not deemed suitable for a union?"

Odrin however didn't seem put out as he corrected, "I merely wait for my designated bride to reach proper age. She should be born in another five months."

"Your bride isn't born yet?!" Persion yelped in shock.

Yet Tyvis explained primly, "Perfection takes time to get right, but the genic prognostications are sublime. Our auguries predict a fruitful union, once she is old enough to bear children and wed Odrin. We are not savages, to marry children off before they are capable of breeding."

Persion had no idea how to respond, even as a Space Marine had a vague notion that people didn't start planning their offspring until they were grown. Half-remembered recollections of growing up on Trux were that adolescents tended to make their own arrangements between themselves and adults only stepped in to formalise matters once someone's belly started to grow. Thankfully he was saved from explaining that as a commotion at the far end of the hall drew all eyes. It was the Governor, emerging from behind golden doors in her looming life-support throne and she wasn't alone. With her were a half-dozen people, none of this planet.

"Our other honoured guests arrive at last," Odrin declared.

"Guests?" Persion asked in confusion.

"Yes the Lady Vevara arrived just before you did," Odrin stated.

Yet Persion barely heard him for his eyes fell on the newcomers, one in particular. A lithe and tall individual whose movements betrayed an alien nature in every inhuman gesture. Persion's hackles rose at the sight and his hearts thundered with instinctive loathing as centuries of war and Hypno-indoctrination demanded a response. Yones sounded bemused as he asked, "Is that an Eldar?"

Yet Persion's hand was already on the haft of his Friction-axe as he snarled, "Xenos! Kill it, kill it now!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 13**

In a palatial apartment suite within the Jade Citadel Manaar considered a painting. He had been standing still for some time, eyes pouring over the canvas, examining brushstrokes and the use of space and light. For Mon-Keigh work it wasn't bad, which wasn't saying much, but on Craftworld Furta-Rith such a piece might have passed for an apprentice's handiwork. Most Mon-Keigh arts were bombastic, rough and unsubtle, looking half-finished to an Eldar but this was superior to the trash the filthy animals so loved. Manaar's time on the Path of the Artist allowed him to appreciate it in a way no human critic could and he discerned the painter's keen vision and deft hand. Surprising that this world could produce such talented artists, perhaps their practice of directed breeding had some merit, on the clumsy Mon-Keigh level at least.

While the painter's execution was passable it was the subject matter that intrigued Manaar. The painting displayed a euphoric pastoral scene, with people laughing and feasting upon agrarian hills, while a red sun lit the sky above. It was a perfect day, filled with joy and happiness and in the centre stood a golden being, with enamelled armour and a flaming sword, surrounded by a halo of light. The message could not have been more obvious: Mankind enjoying the protection and direction of their God-Emperor. A human observer would see the message the Imperium wanted them to see. Yet underneath that was a second, subtler message. The flow of the painting did not draw the eye to the golden being, instead the lines of colour and light flowed around him, passing by as if he was not there. The people did not look to him with adoration but seemingly ignored him, dancing and eating with no reference to his presence. He didn't fit, his armour did not reflect the red light as it should and he seemed almost superimposed upon the image. In this context their Emperor looked to be an afterthought, a cumbersome burden added after the feast had started. The hidden message was clear to Manaar: this world could thrive with or without the Corpse-Emperor and he suspected he may be the only individual to gaze upon this artist's work and divine the concealed message.

Manaar didn't know how long he stood staring at the painting but he became aware of a buzzing in his ear. He forced his mind away but it was a struggle. His soul had once been obsessed with artistic expression and even now the temptation to lose himself in a piece held a strong attraction. He had to forcibly remind himself that he had left that Path for another, the way of the Aspect Warrior, to break his trance. He forced his head away and beheld a palatial suite of rooms, with wide floors and rude furniture. The architects had tried to make it lavish but in typical Mon-Keigh fashion had overdone it, the gold fixtures were heavy and overwrought, the weaves of the rugs messily complicated and the unavoidable Aquila icon looked stamped onto the roof. By Eldar standards it was garish and overblown, but it did command a sweeping vista of the Jade Citadel.

Eirk leaned upon the glassic with his forehead pressed to the surface. The warrior was leering downwards and hissed, "Look at that." Manaar glanced down and saw far below a procession of people, lumpy Mon-Keigh waddling along carrying a litter upon which lounged a corpulent individual, some rich fool lording over his vassals. Yet it was not this that drew Eirk's eye but a courtesan trailing the party, with her head held high, drawing status from her lord's wealth. Manaar's superior sight revealed her features were more symmetrical than average and her body mass distributed in a way the Mon-Keigh found pleasing. Personally Mannar found all Mon-Keigh lumpish, misshapen brutes but even he could concede the way her ebon skin reflected the dim sunlight was pleasant, a shimmering lustre like oil upon water. This one was the exemplar of the planet's breeding program, the careful selection of traits combined to create a superior stock. For a mad second Manaar even considered that if the species as a whole embraced this stratagem then they might not be such insufferably ignorant brutes.

He shook off the thought and said, "Don't waste your time, this world won't let the likes of you sully their genic pool."

Eirk didn't bother to look up as he replied, "Don't count on it; my genes are as good as anybodys. These people should be proud to welcome a fine specimen like me."

Manaar found that laughable but was saved from commenting as Lumix interjected, "Improbable, the Genic screening programs of this world are legendarily precise. Each union is planned meticulously and every offspring assigned a function at birth. Pascum claims to be the only planet in the sector with a mutation ratio of zero. The efficiency of such a system is admirable."

Lumix was busily scrubbing a low table with an acid-laced wipe, his paranoia of germs not letting him stop. In another corner sat the Abomination, with her greatsword laid across her knees as she mediated. She had not moved since they had arrived and Manaar could have admired the focus, were the Sister of Silence not a crime against nature. Of the Inquisitor there had been no sign, Vevara had disappeared into a private meeting with the local ruler and not been seen since.

As if summoned by the thought there was a squawk from Lumix and he straightened up to declare mechanically, "Vox-message: Vevara wants Eirk, Manaar and Lumix to attend her immediately."

Eirk looked up and Manaar flexed his muscles to warm up for the prospect of action, yet he glanced at Mortula and asked, "What about that one?"

Eirk moved past him and explained, "Best not, people tend to be on edge when she's around."

Manaar didn't doubt it, even a blunt race like humans could sense her wrongness, reacting with hostility and anger without knowing why. They left the Sister behind as they departed the apartment, heading out into the Jade Citadel. Manaar felt the restoration of his psychic senses immediately, basic as they were. The physical nature of his surroundings became secondary as the universe unfolded, the chatter of many minds thrumming constantly in the background. One who walked the Path of the Seer could reach out and manipulate those minds, or bend the laws of physics with Warp energies, but Manaar's skills lay in other directions. Yet even with his unschooled abilities he felt an electric tingle, the psychic spoor Koshano had gifted to him so he could find his prey. It was unmistakable, plucked from the Skein and imprinted on the Warp Spider's mind as clear as an auspex signal. Manaar had not the talent to make such a conjuring himself but the power of the Farseers were many and subtle, Koshano had gifted his agent with the ability to track his prey from afar and Manaar was stunned to realise his target was nearby. The mind he had been tasked to seek and eliminate was within this very building. He was elated, one day had he been on this planet and already he had caught the scent of his quarry.

So rapt was Manaar on his discovery that he barely noticed when they entered an ante-chamber, passing a pair of guards who let them pass without question. Inside the gilded room they found Inquisitor Vevara, standing before a looming throne of tubes and bubbling cauldrons. It took Manaar a moment to realise there was a decrepit crone bound within the machine, an ancient hag who made his skin crawl. Mon-Keigh were short-lived and ugly animals, but when they tried to extend their pathetically brief lives the results were hideous. This one was a withered scrap of skin and bone, kept breathing by the machines that bored through her, forcing life into veins and organs that should long have failed. The result was ugly and undignified, offensive even, and he had only just begun to think this planet might not be as bad as the rest of the Corpse-God's empire.

Vevara turned as they entered and stated, "There you are, the Governor and I have reached an agreement. Aleys has been most cooperative."

Aleys sounded uncertain but said anyway, "Yes the Bassail dynasty has always supported the Imperium. The Inquisition is welcome to whatever aid we can offer. No doubt your presence will silence dissenters to the Emergency Tithe."

Manaar had believed the Inquisition had a license to go where it will, but Vevara seemed to want to work with the locals. The Inquisitor declared, "The Inquisition is not here to root out the source of resistance to the Imperial Regent's commands. I shall be investigating all levels of your society, but first I must meet your highest nobles."

"Yes, yes of course," Aleys stammered nervously, "Fortuitously they gather to celebrate my heir's upcoming union."

"Then let us waste no time," Vevara commanded sternly.

That the Inquisitor unnerved the hag was obvious but Manaar cared not for their petty power plays. His psychic senses were thrumming and he realised the target was close, so very close. Within the next room his quarry lurked and he thought he might have a chance, here and now, to eliminate his target and flee. Could it be that easy, he wondered, could he really complete his mission so effortlessly? The hag turned her throne towards a gilded door, which swung open at her approach to reveal a large room, filled with a crowd of humans. Manaar eagerly stepped forward, his senses thrumming. Together they all proceeded into the ballroom and Manaar began scanning the crowd. If he could just match a face to the psychic spoor he would be half-way to completing his goal, once he had the physical appearance of the target there would be no escape, he either finished the prey here and fled or tracked it down later if the target was guarded.

Success was tantalisingly within his grasp but suddenly a deep and booming voice bellowed, "XENOS!" The crowd parted in dismay as three immense giants in war plate strode through their midst, the unmistakable form of Imperial Space Marines. Manaar was instantly on guard, reaching for his weapons, but of course his armour was elsewhere, laying in his sealed trunks. Even with his gear he didn't rate his chances against three of the gene-bulked warriors and unarmoured his odds of success were low, the odds of survival even more slender. The leader of the trio strode through the crowd, a burning axe held in a metal hand and Manaar tensed to leap aside from the coming attack. Yet before the pair could meet Vevara stepped into the way and barked, "In the name of the God-Emperor's Inquisition, desist!"

The Space Marines froze at the sight, their weapons held at bay by the shining silver 'I' on Vevara's throat. The trio could crush her with ease, they could break the woman without any effort at all, but they dared not attack an Inquisitor so openly, not in front of witnesses. Manaar knew enough of their stagnant Empire to understand that the Inquisition held authority overall, to challenge Vevara was to court destruction for every Space Marine who wore their heraldic emblem. Two potentate orders of the Imperium were in direct opposition and the whole room fell silent as the crowd looked on in shock and dismay.

The leader froze, weapon in hand as he spat, "You again?!"

Vevara was facing down death incarnate but showed no hint of anxiety as she stated, "I remember you Brother… Persion. I see you have not forgotten me."

"I thought we'd seen the last of you," Persion hissed, "That you took off for the stars, hopefully never to return."

Vevara's gaze was cool as ice as she stated, "I serve the God-Emperor's will, I go wherever He commands."

Another Space Marine, this one in white armour, spat, "Does He command you to consort with Xenos filth?!"

Manaar heard the crowd gasp in horror at the accusation but Vevara replied confidently, "I may utilise whatever tools and agents I deem fit. Under inquisitorial warrant, any methods necessary are sanctioned."

Persion growled, "You bring an alien to a world of the Imperium. Didn't you learn last time that consorting with Xenos only leads to ruin?"

"My methods are not for you to question," Vevara replied, "But yours are in my remit."

Persion snorted in derision, "You overplay your hand, you don't hold a Carta against my Chapter anymore."

Vevara countered coldly, "None are above the penetrating gaze of the Inquisition."

Persion's face reddened with anger as he hissed, "No more games, step aside and let me kill that Xenos."

Manaar bristled but suddenly the tallest Space Marine leant in and whispered, "Persion, everybody is watching."

It was true the crowd was staring at the altercation, mouths agape as they watched the argument play out. Persion snapped, "I don't care for their worthless opinions, there's an alien in the room that needs killing!"

Manaar could feel the hate pouring off this one, the unthinking zeal programmed into the Space Marine. Yet the white-clad one turned to him and caught his arm in a chained hand and hissed, "This is not our mission, you're shaming the Chapter with your outburst."

"Shame be damned," Persion snarled, "Let go Memnos."

"Don't be a bigger fool than usual," Memnos sneered, "Alien or not you can't attack an Inquisitor's ally in public. You're in command of this mission, try to use your brain not your fists."

Persion growled menacingly, "You can't mean to let it live?"

Memnos urged, "Learn to pick your battles, Persion. This isn't a fight the Chapter can afford, not today."

They stared at each other for long moments then Persion cried, "Warp hells, this is a clusterfrak. Vevara keep your pet but don't act surprised when it bites you. And don't expect us to be in the same room with it."

With that the trio of Space Marines strode off, scattering the crowd before them, uncaring for who they shoved out of the way. The crowd sank back in relief, already gossiping among themselves as to the implications of this confrontation. Vevara for her part merely adjusted the fit of her bodysuit but Manaar was in no doubt she had not defended him for his own sake, more likely asserting the position of her office. He knew if it had benefitted the Inquisitor she would have let the Space Marines gut him on the spot. He maintained his composure, but inwardly he flagged as he realised this quest was going to be nowhere near as easy as he had supposed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 14**

Night fell over the city as lingering traces of scarlet faded along the horizon. The stars above blazed brilliantly, shining through a cold and cloudless night. Many of them were in fact orbital facilities, ships and dockyards and starforts that eternally circled this ancient world but others were genuine stars. They shone as they had since before the rise of man, but now they were marred by a faint smear of purple: the Cicatrix Maledictum, that great warp rift that split the galaxy in twain. Physics said the light of the rupture should take tens of thousands of years to reach this deep into the Imperium, yet Chaos had never paid much attention to physical laws.

The people of this world dealt with that paradox by ignoring it. The workers had finished their labours and so turned their attention to more pleasurable pursuits. In the poorer districts revellers drank and caroused, while dancers paraded through the streets. They were celebrating more than just the end of a hard day, the Engagement of their Dominus' son was a time for joy and mirth. The people loved a distraction from the dreary toil of their lives and the announcement of a royal wedding was the perfect excuse to party. Carnival-caste performed their arts for the crowds, merchant-caste vendors hawked meat patties and sweet-breads from stands and publicans kept their bars open to all. Small children were hoisted onto their father's shoulders to watch as lines of dancers paraded under the cover of paper dragons while entertainers in gaudy colours banged brass gongs rhythmically. And all the while Constables worked twice as hard to keep the thief-caste from getting too bold.

The joy of the crowd was palpable but there was one soul who didn't share their elation. Odrin marched along the corridors of the Jade Citadel with a solemn expression, betraying no hint of warmth. Before him serviles scattered, not daring to draw his ire, few indeed would be bold enough to cross the First Secretary of Pascum. The Citadel was bedecked with bunting and night-blossoms that hung from the arches, the nocturnal blooming petals filling the air with a sweet lilac scent. Visiting guests and dignitaries drifted through the halls, observing musicians playing in every corner and dancers performing in the hopes of attracting a rich patron. Odrin saw one young man cavorting in the arches of a fountain, his movements carrying him between the soaring plumes with perfecting timing so he was never splashed.

Odrin knew all this gaiety was a front; the revels were nothing more than a distraction from the ugly incident in the Summer Ballroom. The nobles were shocked and dismayed by the confrontation between the Space Marines and the Inquisition. It had thrown the carefully planned celebrations into bedlam and cast a pall over the entire gathering. Naturally the social elite reacted to the disaster as they always did, by scheming for advantage, shifting their allegiances and making fresh deals with former enemies as new patterns of influence emerged. Odrin should have been a part of that scheming, he should be working to restore the structures that supported the Dominus, but secretly he could not have been more pleased. That idiot Space Marine Persion could not have done more to advance the cause of the Kiith if he tried. He'd painted the Imperium as belligerent warmongers and violent bullies and as soon as the common folk heard of it they'd be outraged. They'd certainly hear of it, Odrin had agents working right now to make sure the word got out. Persion's foolishness had practically opened the door for Odrin to act.

Odrin's measured march had brought him to a wide doorway, guarded by a pair of burly men in bronzed amour and carrying ceremonial staves with pain-goads built into the ends. The men nodded knowingly as he approached, for Odrin had bought their loyalty long ago and they had been waiting for his arrival. The men had guaranteed the corridor was clear so there would be no witnesses and they knocked on the door to indicate the time had come. The door opened slightly and a nervous face peered out. It was Goddun, the Dominus' heir and he had been waiting for Odrin's arrival. The young man waved the First Secretary inside and Odrin entered, finding a luxurious suite of private rooms. Goddun wrung his hands as he said, "Finally, I thought you'd never come."

Odrin faked an insincere smile as he replied, "Be at peace, all is in order for your departure."

"It better be," Goddun whined, "I can't stay here, I can't marry that cold fish Proam calls a daughter."

Odrin didn't bother to reply, for the wedding was never going to happen. The boy was weak, insipid and dissolute; he didn't have the drive and ruthless ambition needed to rule a world. The Genic council had bred a perfect specimen, genetically, but his spirit was timid and indecisive. The people of Pascum would never admit it but certain traits couldn't be bred, courage, decisiveness and guile had to be taught and Goddun had singularly failed to acquire any of them. Goddum would a puppet king, following the advice of whoever was standing at his shoulder. Normally that would suit Odrin, he could rule from the shadows but then he would be competing with the Viscount's daughter for influence and he didn't tolerate any rival to his ambition. Besides, the Kiith had larger plans for this one.

There was a soft cough from an ante-chamber and a short woman with flowing locks that cascaded down her shoulders peered out, one of the servile maids who worked in the Jade Citadel, bred for obedience and appearance, not intelligence. She looked up at Odrin and asked, "Is this the one?"

Goddum smiled at her and said, "Yes Petalia, he will take us to freedom."

The young woman rushed out to grab the heir's hand, an innocent expression of hope plastered over her dim-witted face. Odrin hid a mocking grin at the sight. These two had broken Pascum's taboo on unplanned unions, daring to fall in love and thinking to run away together. Odrin should have been outraged when he found out, but in truth he had been forced to swallow his laughter. The pair had given him everything he needed, the corruption of Pascum's ideals with off-world notions and their planned flight, all of it played right into his hands. He had presented himself as an ally, gaining their trust and helping them concoct a scheme to flee off the planet and seek new lives among the stars. They had swallowed his lies without question, little realising he had no intentions of fulfilling his word.

Odrin drew himself upright and declared, "We have to go."

Goddun looked back into his rooms and said, "I have bags…"

"No time for that," Odrin snapped, "The hour is ripe, we have to depart immediately."

"But what will we do for money?" Goddun asked.

"It's taken care of," Odrin lied effortlessly, "I have friends waiting in orbit to carry you away. I wouldn't help you flee only to leave you in poverty."

Petalia whispered, "We don't need money, my love, so long as we have each other."

Insipid idiocy, Odrin thought, the kind of poetic nonsense believed only by young folk who had spent too much time reading the romantic trash published by off-world hucksters. A few years living penniless in gutters would knock the innocence out of these two, not that Odrin intended to let that happen. Still at least it got the pair moving and they followed Odrin out of the rooms, walking hand in hand as if this was some grand adventure. The guards fell in at Odrin's gesture and they hurried through the Jade Citadel, moving with furtive speed, wary of observers. Odrin had taken care to make sure their path was clear but all it would take was one drunken reveller to stumble into the way and his plan would be ruined. Which was why had a laspistol stashed up his sleeve.

Odrin paused at a stairwell, then headed downwards but Goddun spluttered, "We're going down, not up?!"

Odrin replied, "How would it look, launching into orbit straight from the Jade Citadel? You will take a secret exit to the undercity and lie low for a few days, before sneaking to the starport."

"Oh yes, it makes sense I suppose," Goddum allowed.

Idiot, Odrin thought, if he had any loyalty to the Dominus he'd be doing her a favour by shooting this cretin and letting her daughter inherit instead. Otlie would be a far more effective ruler than this moron could ever be. Still it suited Odrin to humour the fool and he led them on, knowing they were nearly at their destination. They descended many levels, then emerged into a far more plain and functional corridor, one used by serviles not nobles, and headed off at a brisk pace.

As they walked Goddun commented, "I won't miss this place, I've always wanted to leave."

Odrin didn't care what the fool wanted but kept up the pretence as he said, "Many would think it a wonder to have such luxury."

"Luxury?!" Goddun spat, "It's a gilded cage. Every choice is made for me, every word and gesture planned out to the last detail. My potential was measured and my story was written before I was even born. Limits were set for me, before I even had a chance to test them. I want to live my own life, to make choices for myself and love who I want to love. You understand, don't you Odrin. You were born clerk-caste but you rose high on your own merits, you earned your place. I want to do the same, start from nothing and work my way up."

Odrin thought the lad was seriously overestimating his talents, to think he could ever earn anything on merit. The conceit of the rich and powerful was to think they understood what it was to be poor and powerless. Still he was almost rid of the dupe and paused before a barred gateway saying, "Here we are."

Goddun peered at the many plasteel bars sealing the doors shut and asked, "What is this, why don't I know about it?"

The guards began unbinding the gate as Odrin explained, "One of your honoured ancestors had this built, as an escape route. It leads to the undercity, where my friends await you. They will take care of you."

Goddun smiled vapidly as he said, "Thank you."

"It was nothing," Odrin replied with a rare flash of honesty as the gate swung open and the guards moved away to make sure the corridor was clear.

Behind the door was a dishevelled man, in ragged clothes, one of Odrin's contacts from the Kiith. The man had been waiting for them and made a secret sign, which Odrin returned with a countersign. He turned to the pair and said, "This man will lead you to a safe place, follow him and do as he says. In a few days we will smuggle you to the spaceport and then to the stars."

Petalia wrinkled her nose and protested, "It smells bad down there."

Yet Goddum replied, "It's only a brief discomfort then we shall be free, come my love, new lives await us. Goodbye Odrin, we can never repay you."

With that the pair walked into the darkness, following the Kiith agent into the depths. Odrin watched them go silently, counting their steps until the echoes faded. He gave no sign of it but he was well aware that they would never leave the undercity. Their dreams of a grand adventure would end with the kiss of a sharp knife, but not just yet, not until the moment was right. He would let the word of their escape leak out, then when the people's outrage was at bursting point the pair's gutted bodies would be found in an alleyway. The Viscount would be incandescent with fury and withdraw his support from the Dominus, taking the majority of the social elite with him, leaving her helpless and without allies. Meanwhile the populace would riot, inspired by provocateurs the Kiith had planted amongst them, rising in a violent explosion of frustrated resentment and indignation. All Odrin had to do was make sure it was directed at the right target.

The guards had their backs to him so they did not see him draw his laspistol and level it at their heads. One flash of las and a guard collapsed, the other dying before he even realised his companion had been shot. The two men slumped into boneless heaps, their cauterised skulls smoking from the blasts. Odrin carefully stepped over them and took a small scrap of cloth bearing an Imperial Aquila from his pocket, torn from the uniform of one of the Guard regiments being raised across the planet. He pressed it into the hand of one of the corpses and then stepped back. To a casual inspection it would look like the guard had ripped it off the uniform of an attacker in a fight, an Imperial infiltrator who had kidnapped the Dominus' heir. When word of this hit the streets the people of Pascum would rise up in rebellion, assisted from the shadows by the agents of the Kiith who had smuggled weapons into the city. In a few days they would tear down the hated symbols of Imperial rule and then the Dominus who supported them.

With a jaunty stride Odrin turned his back on his murder site and walked away. The plan was finally in motion, the pieces moving according to a scheme he had devised decades earlier. The Dominus' regime was about to fall and Odrin would ascend from the ashes to claim her crown. Everything was going according to plan but there was one random factor left to deal with. He chewed his lip as he thought about the Inquisitor and the Space Marines, they would not sit idle and would certainly seek the thwart his ambitions. He determined it was better to eliminate them before the rebellion erupted. Yes, the Imperials had outlived their usefulness; it was time the Kiith arranged a suitably grizzly end for them.


	15. Chapter 15

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 15**

"I don't see what the fuss is," Sergeant Yones proclaimed to the room. The Primaris was leaning on a wall in their quarters, his arms crossed before him. The Storm Heralds had been assigned a luxurious suite, filled with golden furniture and with a stunning vista of the city and the soaring monument to Reunification, casting a long shadow as the dawn light filled the sky. The Space Marines had promptly cleared the useless chairs and tables, preferring hard walls and stone floors to the flimsy furniture.

Persion shook his head in denial as he corrected the Primaris, "It is an alien, here on an Imperial world. It is an offence!"  
"Still, its only one Eldar," Yones protested, "Not a threat."

"Don't underestimate the Eldar," Jediah hissed from the corner, where he was keeping close to Sergeant Gotram.  
Sergeant Zeax was pacing irately up and down, swinging his Thunder hammer as he added, "We've fought those scum before, they are a dangerous foe."

Yones snorted, "Grit in the Cogs, one elongated humanoid is a threat? It's pathetic."  
Memnos was standing at the window, staring out at the city as he probed, "Showing Sympathy for the alien Yones?"

Yones frowned the accusation as he retorted, "Hardly, but I've fought Orks and K'nib and Fra'al. The Eldar are nothing compared to that. I've never understood why people get worked up over those flimsy weaklings."  
Persion lifted his augmetic arm and snapped, "This was the work of an Eldar. Do not be fooled by their appearance, those aliens are as much a threat to the Imperium as the savage Ork or the rapacious Tyranid. Only a fool would trust one, only a dead fool turns his back on one."

Sergeant Gotram spoke up, "Then why would an Inquisitor ally herself with one?"  
Zeax answered, "Vevara is a sly one, pushing others around like pieces on a regicide board. She is a treacherous viper, always looking to manipulate others to fulfil her goals."

"You've met her before?" Yones asked.  
"Once," Persion muttered, "I preferred Inquisitor Zerban, at least he was honest about his hatred. Vevara, you can never tell where her loyalties lie. She got us to kill him for her and then took off."

"What?!" Yones exclaimed, "You killed an Inquisitor?!"  
Memnos stepped in to explain, "They were at war with each other. Zerban was a heretic, trying to plunge the Imperium into more wars. Vevara is an Amalathian, they preach a creed of keeping the Imperium's order of being intact, resisting change in any form. The two of them fought a proxy war with us caught in the middle. Zerban ended up dead and Vevara took off for the stars."

"Good riddance," Jediah muttered.  
"What of the Governor," Gotram asked, "Is she partnered with the Inquisitor?"  
"If not directly then by association," Persion muttered, "She tolerates an alien upon her world, it is inexcusable."

Memnos' head turned fractionally as he stated, "Our mission is to support her rule, an objective we already fell short of with your outburst in the ballroom."  
"Frak that," Persion hissed, "I give no consideration to an alien sympathiser."

"Our orders are clear," Memnos sternly reminded him, "You do not have any authority to defy them."  
"Our orders didn't include cosying up to an alien," Persion snapped, "I can't imagine the Chapter Master thought we'd encounter one. Hellfire, if I shoot that fiend in front of everybody he'd probably give me a medal!"

Persion stopped his tirade as a soft knock came at the door, making everybody freeze. Jediah was at the door in an instant and threw it open, grabbing the figure outside by the neck and heaving him inside. It was some lowly servant in a gaudy outfit and the man's eyes went wide as he was hoisted off the ground. His hands beat at the cage of a gauntlet wrapped around his throat but Persion snapped, "Don't kill him!"

Jediah glared at the intruder and snarled, "Speak quickly if you value your life."  
The terrified man looked like he was about to piss himself but stammered, "I… I was sent to bring you to the Dominus. She demands your presence immediately."  
"She demands?!" Jediah growled in a menacing tone.  
But Persion said, "Leave it, he's worthless. I want to talk to Aleys anyway. Sergeants with me, everybody else stay here. You man, take us to the Governor this instant."

Jediah dropped the servant, who half-collapsed but recovered his stance. Seeing several angry Space Marines glaring down at him the servant hastily retreated, almost fleeing before them. Persion, Memnos, Zeax, Jediah, Gotram and Yones didn't bother to run to keep pace, the man's nervous skipping was no match for their customary stride. Persion followed the servant with ease but his hand was never far from his Friction Axe, ever wary of betrayals. This supposed diplomatic mission was quickly turning out to be a cesspool of intrigue and scandal; he wouldn't put anything past one who would tolerate an alien.

Memnos spied his grip and muttered, "Are you planning to use that?"  
Persion growled, "I hope I have a chance to."

Memnos glared at him and hissed, "Weren't you listening, we are here to assist the Governor, not slaughter her."  
Persion muttered, "You would have me spare an alien sympathiser?"

"I would have you keep to mission parameters," Memnos retorted.  
Persion's lip curled but he muttered, "Damnation... very well. Everybody, no killing. Gentle maiming only."

Within a few minutes they reached a sealed chamber, which was opened to them as they approached. The six Space Marines strode within only to find themselves entering a bunker. The walls were thick Ferrocrete, reinforced by plasteel girders. It was totally at odds with the refined artistic styles of the rest of the Jade Citadel and one glance informed Persion this was not part of the fortress most guests would see. It was a hardened panic room, designed for defence not aesthetics. Inside there was no furniture save for two gurneys laid out before them, with corpses draped in white sheets upon them. There was also the Governor in her mechanical throne, with her First Secretary and guards, about a score all armed with long staves.

The six Space Marines drew to a halt before this strange display and Persion drew in a breath to speak but was interrupted as Aleys spat, "What have you done?!"  
Persion's eyes narrowed as he growled, "You better explain that remark."

"Don't play games with me!" Aleys hissed, "I invite you into my home, treat you with all dignity and honours. My family has supported the Imperium ardently for thousands of years and this is how you repay me?!"  
Persion's augmetic hand was hovering over his Friction axe as he snarled, "Are you accusing us of something specific or is this a general rant?"

Odrin stepped forward and declared, "The Dominus' heir has gone missing! Kidnapped from his quarters in the night. His guards were found dead in the lower levels and one of them bore this!"

Persion saw him brandish a scrap of cloth, bearing an Aquila, and cocked his head to reply, "And you immediately guessed we were involved."  
"No one else could have done it!" Aleys shrieked, "No soul of Pascum would dare touch my heir, no one would have the temerity. All my life I proclaimed the cause of Terra, calling for the people to cleave to the Imperium and you betray me! I should have you cut down like vermin for this!"

"Don't threaten us," Persion hissed.  
But Aleys bawled, "Seize them!"

The guards tensed to attack but before they could move the Space Marines were upon them. These mortals had never seen a Space Marine in action, never witnessed the blinding velocity genhanced muscles could produce, especially when backed by power armour and so were taken completely by surprise. One second the Storm Heralds were standing still, the next six blue-clad giants were amongst the guards, fists and weapon hafts swinging. Following their orders they did not use the cutting edge of their blades but instead brought blunt force to bear, breaking bones and shattering limbs. Persion launched himself at two men standing between him and the Governor, the first he floored with a punch to the face that left the man gagging on blood and shattered teeth, the second he downed with an elbow to the clavicle, shattering the shoulder. He left them in his wake as he drew his Friction Axe, advancing two more steps to place the burning edge against Aley's chest as he snarled, "Don't move."

The Governor's face fell as her elite guards fell and she gasped, "You… you took them apart like it was nothing."  
"You only outnumbered us three-to-one, you never stood a chance, Persion sneered, "Your planet has not witnessed the footstep of an Astartes in centuries, it seems you have forgotten what we are capable of."

Around them the guards lay moaning and bleeding, clutching their wounds as they rolled about in agony. Persion ignored their mewling as he said, "Now, explain again how you lost your son."  
Beside the throne Odrin was being held up by Jediah, whose knife was laid across his throat, but the First Secretary stammered, "He… he disappeared in the night, his guards were found dead along with evidence of fighting Imperials. They tore this off an attacker, we assumed it was your men."

There was a scuffle behind them as Memnos strode over to the bodies on the gurneys and lifted the sheets. He bent over the corpses then declared, "No Astartes did this."  
Aleys glanced at the burning axe hovering over her breast and nervously said, "You're certain?"

"Cause of death was las-shots to the back of the head," Memnos replied, "Bolt rounds wouldn't leave enough skull behind to examine anything."  
Odrin dared to propose, "It may not have been you directly, but Imperial Guard regiments are being founded across the planet. This cloth may have been torn from one of them."

Yet Memnos countered, "No defensive wounds, no bruising or scarring. Look here, under the fingernails, no blood traces or cloth fibres. If he had been fighting there would be evidence of it on his hands. These men weren't killed in a fight, they were taken unawares, shot from behind… by someone they trusted."

"This was an inside job," Persion declared, "Someone in the Palace did this, one of your people tried to frame us."  
"Can you tell who?" Odrin asked.  
"Sadly no," Memnos replied, "Not without a genetic scan of the cloth, the killer may have left biological markers upon it."

Aleys swallowed then said, "It seems I misspoke, I offer my sincere apologies."  
Persion sneered, "Don't let it happen again."  
"Do you mind?" the Governor asked nodding fractionally to the axe.

Persion reluctantly clamped the axe to his hip and stepped back. The others did the same and the air of danger dissipated. Yones looked at the bodies and asked, "How bad will the fallout be?"  
"Catastrophic," Odrin replied, "The loss of the heir destroys our plans to secure peace via marriage. Without that wedding our Government is thrown into anarchy."  
Aleys elaborated, "We can't keep this suppressed for long, when news leaks out the people will riot. Forget paying the Emergency Tithe, it will start revolts planet-wide."

"Over a cancelled wedding?" Persion asked incredulously.  
Odrin explained, "We are counting on Viscount Proam's wealth to balance our debts. The people are at breaking point over the Tithe laid upon them, they are being gouged to the bone already. They were expecting more than a festival, they were told this would relieve their burdens. There is nothing so offensive to the masses than to be offered hope and then to see it snatched away."

"So we need the boy back alive," Memnos concluded.  
"You're helping us?" Aleys asked incredulously.  
"Our orders were to support you," Persion reluctantly agreed, "Any leads to follow?"

Odrin sadly informed them, "The trail went cold at the undercity, it's a maze down there, a thousand guards could search for a decade and not find anything."  
"They aren't Space Marines," Persion declared, "We will go into the depths and find your lost heir."

Memnos interjected, "Let me take that cloth, I may find revealing traces on it if I can examine it with the proper equipment."  
"You want to go back to orbit?" Persion asked.  
"Actually I was thinking of the Genic councils facilities," Memnos stated, "I have a standing invitation to visit."

Odrin sounded dubious as he said, "The Genic council's reach is long, if this was an inside job there's no guarantee they weren't involved."  
"I can be subtle," Memnos countered.

Persion was satisfied with that but Jediah spoke up, "What of the Inquisitor and her pet alien?"  
Aleys shook her head and said, "Vevara can't have been involved, she left before nightfall to investigate the slums of the city."

"Never underestimate an Inquisitor's treachery," Persion muttered, "But I can't see how it would benefit her to kidnap the heir. I reluctantly place her low on the suspect list, but we would be well-advised not to trust her."

Aleys looked up at him and said, "We cannot waste time, I'll send a hundred guards with you."  
"They'll only slow us down," Persion deflected, "Keep things under control here; we will be back with your heir and the name of whoever did this."

Odrin bowed his head and said, "I wish you good fortune, I am relieved to know Pascum's future is safe in your hands."  
"Save it till we get back," Persion snapped as he stepped over a groaning guard, "Secure your gates and stand ready for anything, something tells me this treachery is only the tip of the iceberg."

And with that the Storm Heralds departed, on the hunt and eager to find their quarry.


	16. Chapter 16

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 16**

The noise grated, the boisterous barking and hooting of Mon-Keigh filling the street with ceaseless chatter. The lane was narrow and lined with booths that served hot foods. Bands of sullen Mon-Keigh gathered around, collecting fried meats and handfuls of bread rolls and chewing loudly. The light was dim and the air heavy with the scents of sweaty bodies and fried fats while the street was stained with traces of vomit and piss, evidence of the celebrations that had consumed the night.

Manaar found it thoroughly disgusting, the stench clinging to his nasal passages. How the species could live like this was a mystery, at least the Jade Citadel had aspired to nobility, in a clumsy way, but this was rank and offensive. He stepped over a slumbering drunk, only belatedly realising the man had pissed himself and walked onwards, following Inquisitor Vevara into the slums. Behind him came Eirk, Lumix and Mortula, all carrying their weapons openly. It was necessary for many eyes followed the unusual party. Even with the Sister of Silence nearby Manaar could feel them crawling all over him, the hostile inspection setting him on edge. Doubtless had they been foolish enough to enter these neighbourhoods unarmed they would be dead already, but thankfully Eirk's looming bulk and Hellgun were far better deterrents than Manaar's svelte form.

The Eldar longed for his Aspect Armour, then he could have skipped through these streets with ease but in doing so he would have set every soul against him. Crude and ignorant Mon-Keigh were conditioned to hate and fear the alien and the sight of a four-armed warrior skipping through the Warp would start a riot in the slums. So he wore his red suit, carrying a pair of laspistols openly as he stalked along. It was frustrating, especially after the encounter with the Space Marines. He had been so close to his target, but with three of them set against him he had no option but to wait for another chance. He couldn't sense the target with Mortula nearby but he had no doubt he would find his prey again, Koshano had told him it would be so.

As they walked Lumix kept his hands tucked into his sleeves and muttered, "Disgusting, I can detect faecal matter on the walls and ground."

"Welcome to the real Psacum," Eirk scoffed, "Forget those fancy palaces, the slums are where the truth of a world can be found."

Manaar could believe it, the slums were a world apart from the gleaming palaces of the rich and powerful. The buildings were shabby and dilapidated, the people malnourished and sickly, their clothes ragged and filthy. It was hard to look upon the destitute masses and accept they were of the same species as the humans he had met earlier. Yet in their eyes was a shared trait, the hungry gleam of one watching for a moment of vulnerability. Whether they were dressed in rags or fine robes the human instinct to take what another had for yourself was ingrained into their very genic code.

Mortula was glaring at the knots of men and women as they walked along, who stared back with equal hostility as she inquired, "Don't these people have jobs to go to?"

"No," answered Inquisitor Vevara, "This is the heart of the criminal-caste's enclave, their own district reserved solely for them. Everyone here is a pickpocket, beggar, mugger or whore."

Manaar was confused so asked, "They breed an entire caste of criminals, deliberately?"

Vevara replied frankly, "This culture believes if there is going to be crime on this world then it's damn well going to be organised properly. Which is why were are here."

Manaar sensed a knot of humans gathering in their wake, like a shoal of razorfins tracking a blood trace in the water. This was not some random gang of thieves, this was deliberate and focussed, a trained team of killers stalking their wake. The crowds before them began to dissipate as feebler vagrants fled from the coming bloodshed and the owners of the booths hurriedly ducked under their stalls. Manaar slid closer to the Inquisitor and whispered, "We are about to be attacked."

"Good," Vevara said, "I was waiting for this."

She paused before a feeble beggar woman, who had not fled and looked up at them with watery eyes as she pleaded, "Coins? Coins for a starving woman?"

The others spread out, facing outwards but Vevara took out a silver coin and held it up as she said, "Tell the Righteous Man he will see us."

Manaar had no idea what she was talking about but the beggar's eyes sharpened and became cunning as she said, "He don't see just anybody."

"Tell him it's an Inquisitor," Vevara stated firmly, "And if he doesn't meet me immediately I have a warship in orbit that will level ten square neighbourhoods."

To Manaar's complete surprise the woman shifted and pulled a small vox-unit from under her rear. She began chattering away in some local argot dialect, one Manaar couldn't understand. He noted though that the pack of hunters hung back, unwilling to attack while they waited for a response. Manaar leaned closer to Vevara and asked, "Is this the one Koshano told you about?"

"Hush," Vevara hissed as they waited.

After a minute a tinny squawk came over the vox and the woman looked up at them to say, "Five doors down, the blue one, he's waiting for you."

Vevara turned and marched to the indicated door, which opened before she could knock. A pale-face man waited within and directed them to enter, closing the door after them. He led them up a rickety flight of stairs, which led to a room that had no place existing among the slums. The walls were the same rotten material as everywhere else but they were hung with tapestries and paintings, and fine wooden furniture decorated the interior. Chairs and cabinets that looked like they belonged in the Jade Citadel rested comfortably next to dressers filled with off-world knickknacks and valuable antiques. Crystal decanters filled with Amasec rested on low tables and a glassic window gave a sweeping vista of the city, marred only by the fact that it looked over the slums. It was bizarre to find such wealth in the slums of the city yet Manaar's eye was drawn to a portly man, sitting in a comfortable leather chair. His hair was receding and grey, he had many chins and his gut was wide, displays of the luxury he lived in. Manaar would have thought him soft and feeble yet his arms were corded with muscle, his fists were calloused and scarred from fighting and his eyes had the look of a merciless killer. One who had fought his way to the top and kept his position with ruthless determination. The man waved the party forward and Vevara sank into a chair across from him. Everybody else hung back, Mortula most of all, her Null Aura would cast a pall of suspicion and mistrust over the meeting.

Vevara eyed the man and said, "You are the Righteous Man."

The man nodded his portly head and said, "So my followers call me and I have been expecting you."

"You have?" Vevara inquired guardedly.

"When I heard an Inquisitor was coming to Pascum I knew it would only be a matter of time until you knocked on my door."

Vevara snorted in amusement, "You think I am here for you? You overestimate your importance. You run a petty criminal syndicate on a backwater world. Smuggling drugs, blackmailing nobles, fleecing drunks in back alleyways, gambling and thieving, this does not interest the Emperor's Left Hand. You are nothing to the Inquisition: Fysc"

"Petty tricks don't impress me," Fysc retorted, "Why are you here?"

Vevara lowered her head a fraction and said, "I seek bigger quarry than you. A conspiracy is afoot on your world. A threat to Imperial rule festers here and you know where it lurks."

Fysc grinned broadly as he said, "Ah… you seek that most valuable of treasures: information. Such things can be expensive."

Vevara's eyes narrowed as she hissed, "Defy me and I will tear your enterprises down to nothing."

Fysc snorted, "You can try, but I have agents across the planet and contacts across the sector. Rooting them out will take decades, time you don't have. Why fight when what I ask for is so small?"

Vevara leaned back and asked, "What do you want?"

Fysc laced his fingers before him as he explained, "What do you know of the ways of Pascum?"

Vevara answered, "You are a genic-planned society, divided into castes. From the highest noble to the lowest beggar, each soul happy to be in his assigned place."

Fysc snorted, "So it may look from the windows of the palaces and merchant halls but let me tell you it isn't so pretty in the slums. We live in a regime that dictates our lives, telling us what we can do and cannot do and how much we can earn. It's agreeable for the nobles, merchants and spacefarers but to those of us born poor and starving it's soul-crushing, a machine designed to grind us down to nothing. Our entire society exists to make the elite richer and keep the poor out of sight, so they can't see us starving."

Eirk spoke up, "I thought your world cherished its Genic heritage."

"Blame your vaunted Imperium," Fysc snorted, "You put ideas into our heads, showing us that there were other ways to live. Worlds where a man can rise from nothing to greatness, if he is cunning and bold."

From what Manaar knew of the Imperium that was a gross exaggeration, the worlds of Men were all equally tyrannical to him, but the criminal seemed to cherish his delusions. Vevara leaned in and said, "So what do you want of me?"

"You... nothing," Fysc replied, "It's your Magos I'm interested in."

"Me?!" yelped Lumix.

"Yes," Fysc said, "I've been trying to find a tech-priest for years, to examine our implants. Look at my servant here."

The pale-faced man stepped forward and pulled up his shirt, turning to expose his spine. For the first time Manaar noted a tiny bump in the base of the spine, some form of implant. Lumix extended a mechanical hand and waved it over the implant, scanning it in some manner as he mused, "Yes indeed, a small implant embedded in the spinal column. It extends tendrils into the nervous system, manipulating hormone production just enough to prevent conception. Simple, easy to manufacture and implant: exceedingly efficient."

"Well that explains a few things," Eirk muttered, "All this talk of planned reproduction; I wondered what they did about unwanted pregnancies."

"You all carry these?" Manaar asked, "Males and females."

Fysc nodded, "Implanted at birth, it's how the Genic council controls the population, only they know how to turn them off. Legend has it they made it to keep the whores from pumping out kids, but it wasn't long before they realised it could be used to keep all the castes in line. Control, that's what it's all about, control of the common man. They want to sit in their palaces and ivory domes and decide who gets to have children, who lives and who dies. We're born criminal-caste and we die criminal-caste, there's no other option for us. I've spent my life amassing wealth, more money than most nobles can dream of, but I'll never walk among them, never be accepted by even the lowest merchant traders."

Eirk asked, "Why do the other castes put up with it?"

Fysc replied, "Because they get to look down their noses at us. Sometimes when you have next to nothing the only comfort is that there's someone even worse off. Even the undertaker-caste looks down at us. But if you can show me how to break their hold over us…"

Vevara lifted a delicate eyebrow and asked, "Lumix, can you disable it?"

Lumix replied, "A low-yield electromagnetic pulse will confound the Machine Spirit."

Fysc eagerly yelped, "Tell me how."

"Not so fast," Vevara stopped him, "First you will tell me what I want to know, then I decide if it's worth anything."

Fysc's beady eyes glared as he spat, "You play a dangerous game, I can have fifty murderers in here before you can blink."

Vevara stated icily, "And I can slit your throat before one of them sets foot through that door. Let me be clear, I don't care about you, I don't care about your syndicate or your petty crimes. Your worthless dreams are nothing to me, all the crimes you have committed in your life wouldn't even lift an eyebrow in the halls of the Inquisition. I am here to find a threat far vaster than you can imagine and I will root it out by means fair or foul. I can buy the information I need off you, or kill you and then torture your underlings until one of them gives me what I need. I honestly don't care either way, so make your choice."

Fysc stared in disbelief then broke out into a grin as he said, "Girl, I like the way you think. Yes, I have noticed mysterious goings on. My boys have seen strange movements of goods and materials into the city, growing more frequent in the last two years. Drugs, rations, guns, it's being smuggled into the undercity and then disappearing. I don't know where it ends up, every lad I send into those depths disappears, but I can point you to the place they go underground."

Vevara pursed her lips and mused, "It's a starting point, show me where it is."

Fysc leaned back and said, "My boys can guide you there, but what about my price?"

"Lumix give him an encrypted data crystal," Vevara said, "You get the decryption key when I come back alive. Just in case you're thinking of steering me into an ambush."

Fysc grabbed the proffered crystal and quipped, "Damnation, I heard you Inquisitors can read minds. Oh well, plan B it is. My lads will show you the way, no tricks I promise."

Vevara stood up, walking out with stately grace. Manaar followed her out, bemused by the exchange and he asked, "You intend to let that cockroach live?"

Vevara continued walking out the door as she explained, "An Inquisitor has to pick their targets sagely, if we investigate every petty crime we'd never stop. He is a small fish in a small pond, my target is bigger."

Manaar sighed at the Mon-Keigh's twisted thinking but gripped his pistols tight. It looked like they would be heading underground and he suspected he would be needing them. More than ever he wished for his Aspect Armour, he didn't like the prospect of venturing into the unknown armed with nothing but a pair of pistols.


	17. Chapter 17

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 17**

Sergeant Gotram moved through the darkness under the world, its cloying tendril draping him in shadow and mystery. He felt at home in the sunless depths, it matched his purpose and his manner, a silence menace that passed unremarked until it was too close to avoid. The Reivers did their work in the dark places, unseen and unappreciated by those who stomped about in the light bellowing of pride and honour. It was an inglorious existence, nobody wanted to know of the things Reivers did for Mankind, yet they had the satisfaction of knowing that victory would not have been possible without their silent assistance.

The Reivers were deep under the city, heading downwards as they sought the trail of the lost heir. The Storm Heralds had marched into the undercity with heads held high, confident they would soon find the child and drag him back to the Jade Citadel. Unfortunately it hadn't been quite so easy. The Undercity was a warren of tunnels, supply pipes, sewers and rail tunnels and the trail had gone cold before an hour had passed. Lieutenant Persion had determined the best option was to split up and seek a sign of the boy's passage. Zeax and the Devastators had diverted down an empty railway line, some underground network that had been abandoned long ago, possibly when Imperium came and brought starfaring technology that made subways obsolete. Persion had led the Intercessors down a ladder into a stinking sewer, muttering under his breath as he did so. Jediah however had taken the Reivers towards the scent of freshwater, following a trail only they could see.

As the squad advanced Gotram eyed his new Lieutenant warily. The Space Marine was shorter than a Primaris and wore bulkier armour. The Reivers boasted elite Phobos plate, a new invention by Belisarius Cawl, designed to maximise stealth and manoeuvrability. It was faster, sleeker and quieter than Jediah's growling Mark VII plate, plus the squad carried long knives, bolt pistols and shock grenades, they should have the older Marine outclassed in every way yet time and time again he had outfought them. At first Gotram had resented the Marine but then he had determined to learn everything he could from the veteran. In their time together he had learned scores of new moves, techniques for stealth and assault that would never have occurred to him. Gotram was no novice, he'd seen hard fighting at the front of the Indomitus Crusade but he was starting to realise that he had always fought from a position of strength, backed by thousands of Primaris Marines and war fleets. The Firstborn Astartes had enjoyed no such privilege, they'd been fighting endless waves of dread opponents and unimaginable horrors for ten thousand years and so had forged diamond-hard wills and a ruthless determination to win at any cost, no matter how much pain and hardship they had to endure. Qualities Gotram reluctantly admitted the Primaris had not yet embraced in their hearts.

His musings were interrupted as Brother Hernaa called out from ahead, "There's a drop!" The squad hurried nearer and saw the tunnel they were following came to an abrupt halt. Illuminated by stab lights was a wide cavern, falling away from them. It was fifty metres wide and just as deep and one side of it was taken up by a waterfall that cascaded down into a pool at the bottom, some form of underground adequate bringing fresh water to the city. A stream flowed from that pool, heading off into the darkness and it was crossed by a wide stone bridge that connected two dark circular openings. Gotram's eyes swept the walls and saw they were lovingly carved, with beautiful frescos and statues in high alcoves.

Gotram looked at them and muttered, "Who would spend such labours on a place none will look upon?"

Hernaa mused, "Those look ancient, possibly dating from before this planet joined the Imperium."

Their conversation was interrupted as Jediah growled, "We are not here for a history lesson. Deploy grapple guns and prepare for descent."

The squad hastily obeyed, taking out small devices that shot cables into the surrounding rock walls. These were clipped to their belts and by pairs they began to descend, those above providing cover then the first two doing the same for the rest who followed. As they waited Gotram eyed his Lieutenant and considered that Jediah was merciless, cruel and vicious yet not in a wild, uncontrolled manner. He was teaching the Reivers discipline and focus, taking their darkest impulses and honing them to a razor edge. Strength of will and commitment were the keys to victory and Gotram saw that while the Reivers embraced the dark, Jediah was born of it.

Finally their turn came and Gotram practically flew down the wall, bounding downwards in great steps. His boots hit the surface of the bridge and as they did so he heard a deep rumble. He frantically looked about, concerned the stone span was structurally unsound but to his surprise Jediah said, "It's not us, that's Crotalids."

"The what?" Gotram hissed as his eyes scoured the area trying to find the source of the noise.

Jediah nodded at the frothing waters below the bridge and said, "Migratory reptilian predators, they like underground spaces. We had an infestation of them on Lujan II when I was a Scout-Novice, they made good hunting exercises for the Neophytes but sadly the oceans proved too salty for them and they died out."

Gotram saw a scaly hide rise up out of the frothing waters then sink back, by his estimate the creature it belonged to must be at least five metres long. He swallowed and asked, "How did they get here?"

Hernaa answered, "I've read about them, they have some natural skill for Warp transit. Nobody understands how they do it, but they can leap up to ten-light years at a time. This planet is covered in wetlands, it must be perfect for them."

Gotram shook his head and said, "Just when you think the galaxy has nothing left to surprise you."

Jediah took a step forward as he said, "Forget them, we have to move on. Form up and…"

Suddenly from the tunnel on the far side of the bridge came a hissing whisper, a noise Gotram instinctively recognised as the pattering of many feet. The sound set his hackles on edge and he immediately knew whoever was coming was not friendly. They were too many and moving too fast, whoever it was wasn't idly passing by they were heading straight for the Reivers in great numbers: a charge into battle. Instantly the Reivers presented their pistols and Jediah growled, "Fire only on my command."

Gotram's lip curled at the dismissal of their judgement but held fast as the far tunnel seethed with movement, then a crowd of filthy and dishevelled people burst into the gleam of their stablights. Gotram saw emancipated bodies, clothed in rags and stinking tatters of clothing. There seemed to be no order among them, no common trait, they were of all ages, young and old, men and women but all of them shared a look of feral rage in their eyes. And one other thing united them; the weapons in their hands were all brand-new, bayonets, autopistols, knives, mining tools and pneumatic rockbreakers. They held them with expert grips and the intent to use them.

"Fire!" Jediah roared and the squad opened up, blazing away with their bolt pistols. Flashing rounds crossed the space of the bridge and hammered into the crowd, blowing off limbs and tearing open bodies in showers of gore. Crimson fountained high and splattered the aqueduct and the waters bubbled as unseen Cotalids swarmed, seeking the rich scent of blood. The crowd should have been halted in their tracks by the barrage but they cared not, more people poured out of the opening and drove their way onto the bridge, pressing forward into the teeth of the fire without concern for their losses. Gotram didn't understand, their morale should have been broken by the bloodshed but they were not given pause, running straight into the face of Space Marine fire. Gotram saw the front rank fall but they shielded the rank behind them, who shielded the rank behind them and each time they grew nearer and nearer. Gotram poured on fire, unleashing tight bursts that cut down many but then his pistol ran dry and the squad's fire slackened.

Instantly the crowd pressed forward but Gotram yelled, "Shock Grenades!" The Reiver's hands flashed and canisters flew high, detonating over the crowd. Blazing light and sound washed over the mortals, causing them to wince in pain and look away and in that instant Jediah yelled, "Charge!" Gotram gripped his knife tight and leapt forward, his sinew coils lending him startling speed as he dove into the crowd. His knifepoint tore out the throat of a blinded man, then cut through the heart of a reeling woman, then disembowelled a young boy. The other Reivers followed suit and a slick of blood covered the bridge, cascading into the flowing waters and making the Crotalids go berserk as they fought over fresh meat.

The crowd had suffered losses but they were undaunted. It made no sense, they should be fleeing in panic before the Space Marines but their courage was unbreakable, almost as if they were being driven forward by a will other than their own. They recovered quickly and bayonets flashed and knives stabbed as they tried to bring down the warriors of the Emperor. They surged up the bridge trying to drown the squad in bodies but were stymied by the narrow span. They could only bring so many to bear at once and the eleven Storm Heralds formed a wall of blue, denying their advance. Nevertheless they drove forward and Gotram found himself beset by foes who screamed, "For the Kiith!"

Gotram hacked and slashed at the wall of flesh, lopping off hands and blocking stabs to his guts as he snarled, "Why won't they break?!"

Jediah blocked the swing of a mining pick with his left arm as he tore out the wielder's guts with his Fractal-edged short sword and snarled, "Ponder later, kill them all!"

Gotram's world shrank as the crowd pressed forward, the sea of faces and knives closing in. A woman tried to drive a pneumatic drill into his side but he caught the machine behind the head and knocked it aside as he stabbed her through the eye. A man swung a lasgun at him, the tip glowing with energy and a shot seared over his shoulder, marring the ceramite but leaving him alive to slash his knife through the enemy's throat. Mortals died under the Reiver's onslaught, bodies toppling off the bridge to fall into the water, reptilian bodies churning below as the Crotalids seized the corpses and devoured them eagerly. Gotram fought with all of his ardour, killing as well as he ever had but the numbers set against them were growing ever greater and the crowd was changing. The Reivers had killed off the mundane foes but the ones behind them were different, scaled skin, fanged teeth and aberrant muscles becoming more evident, revealing a dark and disturbing aspect to the foe. Gotram stabbed a man with three arms and pearl black eyes as he yelled, "Mutants!"

Hernaa shattered a skull with the pommel of his knife as he cried, "I thought this world had no mutants!"

Jediah backhanded a woman off the bridge, sending her screaming into the waters to be torn apart by hungry jaws, as he cried, "We'll sort it out later, kill these wretches!"

Gotram redoubled his efforts, cutting down ever more vile mutants as they came at him. The Reiver's kill tally was considerable but the foe was growing more vicious and more deadly. The chaff had been taken from their ranks, leaving only the most cunning and ferocious of their kind behind, those least human in shape and form. Gotram felt his hatred build in his hearts, the vile debasement of the human form offended his Hypno-indoctrination and as his Emperor demanded he felt only the urge to eradicate the foe.

A mutant came at him roaring, "The Kiith demands your deaths!"

Gotram met him with a stab under the jaw as he roared, "Kill them Brothers, kill the filthy mutants!"

Hernaa cried, "For the Emper…."

His cry was cut off and he suddenly went rigid, frozen in place. Gotram's jaw dropped as he saw a clawed hand plunging within Hernaa's chest, rending claws cutting through his Phobos plate like it was tissue paper. Red blood poured over an arm encased in purple chitin, bound with inhuman muscle and alien sinews. The body it was attached two had four arms and back-jointed legs that ended in clawed feet. The torso was hunched and encased in chitin, crested by a row of bony prominences that stood proud of the spine. It was in no way human, an alien monster completely anathema to mankind, but worse was the head, hairless with pearl-black eyes and a mouth filled with fangs from which a pointed tongue hung low. A face Gotram recognised with absolute dread and horror.

The monster jerked its arm back and Hernaa fell into a heap, his hearts torn from his chest as Gotram took a step backwards, filling with shock and denial as he gasped, "No, it can't be them. Not here, not now."

Yet Jediah hefted his blade and snarled, "It is, Pascum has been infested by the taint of the Genestealers!"


	18. Chapter 18

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 18**

Memnos couldn't help but admit he was impressed. The Genic Council boasted some of the most advanced facilities he had ever seen, their Laboratorium-domes were sites of hallowed science and revered technologies that put the Storm Herald's Apothecarions to shame. In the last few hours Memnos had seen Genic readers and gene-splicers of surpassing quality and Binaric prognosticators that could predict the outcome of breeding matches with astonishing acuity. Flesh-vats that could grow new limbs, diagnostic machines that could discern a virus' mutation long before it became dangerous and deconstruct the molecular chains of poison to create an antidote in minutes.

The Apothecary was currently standing above a sterile Laboratorium, observing from a high balcony behind an airtight glassic window. Below a white room was filled with buzzing equipment, that clicked and whirred as they conducted unknowable processes. Men and women in enclosed red suits tended to these devices, their heads and shoulders covered in metal plates with a single strip of glassic for vision and breathing through small respirators so they did not contaminate the sterile machines with their moist breath and shed hair. In the middle of the room and man stood in a glassic cylinder as lights passed over him, probing his physical qualities in microscopic detail.

Beside Memnos a voice said, "As you can see we can parse the Genic code with absolute precision, identifying potential flaws long before conception."

"Yes," Memnos allowed, "Do you do this for every individual on the planet?"

Matriarch Tyvis laughed, "Why no, such intense scrutiny takes time. We have millions of people to process every day, usually a simple Genic sample suffices to determine a match."

Memnos frowned as he said, "You determine the traits each caste shall focus upon: better eyesight, increased intelligence, height and manual dexterity."

"Nothing so crude," Tyvis demurred, "Selective breeding for lone traits can be useful but tends to create secondary health risks. The earliest generations of Pascum suffered terribly from congenital defects and psychological flaws. We have since learned that change must be slow, traits can only be introduced over ten generations or more. Thankfully we have had millennia to steer our society towards perfection, now each caste is Genically tailored for its assigned role without undue health problems."

Memnos returned his attention to the man below and said, "A remarkable achievement, yet you haven't explained why this individual warrants such attention."

Tyvis smiled under her black robes as she replied, "This demonstration is for your benefit. We are laying the first steps for the creation of a new caste, Genically designed to be offered to your service as recruits."

Memnos' head turned slightly as he asked, "You offer your sons to join the Adeptus Astartes?"

Tyvis nodded demurely, "Pascum would make an exceptional recruiting world for the Storm Heralds."

Memnos found that doubtful, an Astartes required ferocious will and ruthless drive and a purity of purpose lacking in most souls. It could not be bred; it had to be instilled through conflict and strife. His own Homeworld impressed that upon its people through its unusual climate, the Emperor's Storm hammering the populace as regular as clockwork. In the whole Sector only the feral world Trux also met that requirement, the primitive people fighting daily battles against the predators of their jungle world to survive. By comparison Pascum was a haven of peace and tranquillity and Memnos could not imagine this planet produced sons fierce or strong enough to survive the gene-forging process.

Memnos thought Tyvis was kidding herself but spied an opportunity so said, "There are gene-seed compatibility issues."

It wasn't a lie but Tyvis thought he was seriously considering it so proposed, "With time we can produce offspring born to meet your requirements. How many pass your trials only to be turned away for some Genic incompatibility, forty percent, seventy? We can make that irrelevant."

Memnos found her eagerness disquieting but slowly mused, "I must examine your equipment before making such a decision."

Again it wasn't a lie but Tyvis thought he was agreeing so held out an arm and showed the Apothecary to the door. The pair walked out of the balcony into a white corridor that ran high above the domes. As they walked they passed over many Laboratoriums, where red-suited workers tended to an astonishing variety of devices. Memnos had already seen sights that a Genator of the Adeptus Mechanicus would have sold his implants to examine, marvellous examples of the Machine God's benevolence and power. Truly this place was a wonder of Archeotech, boasting machines that may well date back to the Dark Age of Technology. Yet Memnos could not help but note the lack of shrines and devotional icons to the Emperor. There were no skulls or Aquila on display, no chanting adepts or sacred incense being burned, not even a blessed Cog. There was no sign that these people owed any fealty to Terra or Mars, they worked on their devices with clinical disinterest and disregard for Imperial doctrine.

Memnos looked over the heart of the Genic Council and commented, "I am surprised your order has not been subsumed into the Mechanicus."

Tyvis proudly explained, "It was one of the conditions of our entry into the Imperium. As you know our world was never conquered, we entered by peaceful negotiation. One of the concessions offered to us was that our people's society remained unchanged and Genic technologies would remain proprietary. The Tech-Priests of Mars may petition to examine our Archeotech but not make demands or confiscate anything."

Memnos was well aware those negotiations had been conducted at gunpoint but the Imperium must have offered some concessions as face-saving measures. He probed, "And the Ecclesiarchy?"

Tyvis' lip curled as she spat, "Zealots and brash idiots, shouting for blood and slaughter, turning the people to odd ideas. The Genic Council has steered Pascum for millennia, the people should obey me, not them!"

Memnos noted the vitriol in her tone and realised he had hit a nerve but could not investigate further. They had reached a sealed door that rolled open, revealing a chamber filled with humming devices and bubbling chemicals. Black cogitator stacks loomed along the walls and strangely contorted glassic vials squatted on low benches. The walls were lined with fire-suppressant nozzles while microscopes and Genic readers rested on desks. A number of red-suited individuals looked up as they entered but Memnos growled, "I require privacy."

"Of course," Tyvis allowed, "Everybody out."

The workers filed out and Memnos waited for Tyvis to depart. The second he thought he was alone he hastily moved to a Genic reader and opened a pouch on his belt, removing the incriminating cloth. He placed this into a slot on the machine and muttered the Litany of Awakening then turned it on. The Machine Spirit stirred and began scanning the cloth and comparing it to Genic records held in the Cogitator stacks. Memnos stepped back and waited for a result. The Genic Council held extensive records on the population, vast stores of data on every individual. The amount of data-storage this must require would be staggering and he suspected these Cogitators were Noospherically linked to vaster archives elsewhere. It boded well, the chances that the culprit he sought would be on record were high.

As he waited he looked around the room and shuddered. The chamber reminded him too much of those secret experiments his order had conducted… that he had conducted. Tormenting trusting boys who thought he was making them Astartes, while in truth he had riddled them with cancers and exploded blood vessels in their brains. His hand brushed the Chains of Shame and their faces swam up in his mind's eye. Vetar dead of a cardiac arrest, Linkara his guts dissolved by his overstimulated stomach acids, Resho dying screaming as his bones grew and grew and grew unstoppably. Thousands of names and their individual tortures, Memnos had memorised them all and would never let them go. He carried this shame eternally, there was no possibility of redemption for him, no way to ask for forgiveness. He knew he didn't deserve it. This burden would never pass from him, yet he laboured on regardless, to do otherwise was unthinkable.

In a minute the machine beeped and Memnos blinked in surprise: that was fast work. He stepped up to a screen and examined the result but was disappointed to see only one result: Odrin the First Secretary. Useless, the man had handled the cloth and had contaminated it with his gene-imprint. The sample was spoiled and…

Memnos paused as another thought occurred. There should be another trace; the killer would have left some mark. The only reason Odrin would be the only result would be if nobody else had touched the cloth. Odrin had told them of the heir's loss, Odrin had given them the sample, Odrin who had smiled when he heard the Space Marines were going into the undercity. Odrin, who was at the heart of everything.

"Odrin," Memnos breathed, "He's sent my Brothers into a trap."

"Oh well done," a shrill voice cackled, "You're as sharp as a brick."

Memnos spun about and saw Matriarch Tyvis standing inside the doorway, surrounded by men in heavy metal masks and red suits, who carried lasguns and flamers in their hands. Her hostility was obvious but her eyes glittered darkly, a hypnotic gaze that drew the observer in and pinned them like vermin before a predator. Memnos felt her will slam into his mind and his limbs tensed as the power grasped tight. Chains of mesmerising hypnosis wrapped themselves around him, weighing down on his soul and it was an effort for him to hiss, "You… you're working with Odrin."

Tyvis smiled around her glittering eyes as she boasted, "How little you understand. The Kiith are everywhere, we own Pascum. This is our world and we shall wrest it from your hated Imperium."

Memnos struggled to utter, "You never meant to offer your sons to us."

Tyvis sneered, "Quite the opposite, it is you who shall service us. We shall breed a compatible host, one whose genes are married with your Emperor's Genic secrets. A superior breed of warriors, born to defend our world and offer it to the One God when it comes to claim its due."

"Never," Memnos spat, "I'll never help you."

Tyvis sneered, "Your help is not required, we shall claim your Genic secrets from your corpse."

"No," Memnos growled, "You have forgotten something."

"What's that?" Tyvis chortled.

Memnos snarled, "That. I. Am. Astartes!"

As he spoke his anger surged into a raging inferno of hate and sacred revulsion. He was more than a genetically engineered warrior, his mind and soul had been forged by the harshest and most terrible training regime imaginable. His spirit honed by duty and devotion, becoming a razor blade of pure determination. Memnos was a Space Marine and his will was diamond-hard, but more than this he was fired by the memory of his victims, their accusing stares clawing into his soul. Guilt did not slow him, it drove him onwards, never letting him rest, never letting him know peace. Memnos could not stop, not now not ever. His mind was a juggernaut of purpose and it tore through the hypnotic chains like they were wisps of gossamer.

Tyvis screamed as the power of her gaze was broken and her guards hastily brought up their weapons but Memnos was faster. His bolt pistol was in his hand before anyone could react and he fired off a single shot. The round sailed past the guards, touching none of them as it went high and impacted the nozzle of a fire extinguisher. The round detonated and blew apart the metal cone, releasing a torrent of carbon dioxide onto the heads of the guards. The mortals yelled in outrage as they were doused in thick white gasses, fogging their masks and blinding them instantly. They fought to get their bulky helmets off but before any of them could free their heads Memnos was among them.

The Apothecary charged into their midst with his fists and elbows flying, as his Multi-lung filtered the air effortlessly. He could only see blurred outlines through the thick gasses but he could hear his foes perfectly, their struggling efforts to clear their sight betraying their positions. He moved through them with consummate ease, his hands deadly weapons and his blows guided by his exacting knowledge of anatomy. Spines broke under the force of his punches, ribcages were crushed inwards and hearts ruptured as he struck. One man had his side hit so hard his lung collapsed, another died with his hands clawing at his neck, trying to prise away his mask which Memnos had driven inwards to crush his larynx. One opponent managed to let free a blaze of lasfire, that shot randomly into the room, but Memnos was on him in a moment braced fingers ramming into the back of the neck to shatter the spinal cord.

The last foe fell and Memnos listened for Tyvis, but she had disappeared, fled the moment her spell was broken. Momentarily safe the Apothecary took a moment to reach for his helm and fitted it with a solid click. The armour's spirit awoke and filtered the air while its autosenses cut through the swirling gasses with ease. Monochrome images swam before his eyes and Memnos saw the chamber was ruined, the bubbling tubes shattered and the precious Cogitators holed by lasfire. Memnos cared not, these were the tools of Traitors and he would not hesitate to destroy this entire place if he had to.

He was about to leave but something made him pause. He knelt by a corpse and noted the odd placing of the muscles, and the elongated posture of the shoulders, which was not quite human. His suspicions roused he reached down and ripped off one of the boiler-plate masks, revealing a face with pointed teeth, ridges down the forehead and black eyes. One less versed in biology might have mistaken this for a mutant but Memnos had studied many forms of Xenos and learned their vile threats in great detail. He instantly recognised what he was looking at and hissed in revulsion, "Genestealer Hybrid!"

He looked over the rest of the bodies and saw the same aberrations on them all, making the scale of the threat clear. This was no lone infiltrator; this was a full-blown infestation, a canker working at the heart of Pascum. The Genic Council was nothing but a front for a Genestealer Cult. Memnos snatched up a flamer from the floor and stood up, striding from the Laboratorium with hatred in his hearts and cleansing flame in his hand. This vile conspiracy must be torn out at the root and before he left he intended to burn this entire facility to the ground.


	19. Chapter 19

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 19**

The bridge rocked with the violence of battle, aberrant masses of enemies surging forward in an attempt to overwhelm the Reivers. There was no trace of humanity in their eyes, only the overpowering need to obliterate the intruders in their domain. The crowd moved as one, surging and regrouping like a flock of birds wheeling through the sky. Each one of them acted as an individual being but coordinated with their fellows in an inhuman manner. It was the Broodmind, the psychic union of their minds blended with the Xenos impulses of their alien forebearers, driving them into battle like a lash in their subconscious.

The midst of the combat Sergeant Gotram fought to hold back the tide, slashing and hacking at the crowd. He lopped off hands and plunged his knife into eyes with relentless fury but no matter how many he cut down more would press forward. The Hybrids were relentless in their ferocity and scornful of losses, trampling the injured underfoot in their ardour to reach the Space Marines and tear them limb from limb. The bridge grew slick with spilt blood, rivulets of salty hot vitae dripping off the surface to drive the Crotalids below to frenzy. One slip would see the Reivers crushed underfoot or toppled into the churning waters, where they would be snatched up by hungry jaws.

Yet that was not Gotram's primary concern, his attention was focused upon the centre of the bridge, where Jediah duelled the Genestealer Purestrain. The duel was vicious, each one of them moving so fast they became a blur. The Purestrian lashed out with the razor-sharp claws on each of its four arms, its strikes like lightning bolts as they tore Ceramite armour, leaving vicious gouges in the plate. Jediah should have been totally outmatched by this foe but somehow he held his own. His Fractal-edged short sword stuck and sliced, tearing bloody welts into Chitin, giving back as many wounds as he was suffering. While he did this he dodged and weaved, somehow always managing to be in a position to avoid a death strike. Rending claws skittered over his pauldrons and breastplate but the angles were poor and the alien could not land the fatal blow it needed to end the duel.

Gotram fought against the press of enemies in his desperation to reach the duel and intervene but the weight of the foe was against him. No matter how hard he fought he could not break through the waves of bodies coming at him. He was a man trying to hold back an incoming tide; no matter what he did he could not deny their advance. Then he saw it, the worst sight imaginable: two more purestrains bounding through the crowd, seeking to join the fray as the lesser Hybrids fell back, clearing their route.

"Ware!" Gotram yelled as they split up, one heading for Jediah to end the duel, the other coming right at him. Gotram lost sight of the duel as his vision filled with a snarling maw, vicious fangs coming at him like it intended to swallow him whole and flashing claws angling for his heart. Gotram reacted instinctively, by dropping his left shoulder and presenting his Pauldron. Every Reiver carried a thicker plate on his left side, to honour the spirit of the wargear and in extremis it also served as an effective ablative shield. Rending claws tore through thick Ceramite and Gotram gritted his teeth as the force of the impact nearly bowled him over. Yet he dug in his heels and stayed upright as the alien screeched in frustrated rage. The Xenos' arms flicked backwards, driven by sinews like steel hawsers and the Ceramite plate ripped free, shorn from Gotram's armour entirely.

The Sergeant was outraged at the offence to his armour's pride. A son of Terra and of Mars he felt the affront doubly and it drove him into a mad charge, meeting the Purestrain chest to chest. The Genestealer had not expected its victim to react so and it screeched in alarm as Gotram's knife stuck upwards, driven into its side. The point slid between Chitin plates and drove deep, spilling thick purple blood in torrents over Gotram's hand and down his arm. His grip grew slick on his knife but he drove on, pushing for all he was worth. He looked into his enemy's eyes, those dark pits of alien horror and beheld its spirit. There was no trace of humanity in those orbs, no empathy, no mercy or understanding, only the relentless need to conquer and pervert all that was good and pure in the Imperium of Man. Its alien impulses were corrupt and vile, loathsome unto the hearts of any true Warrior, but there was rage, a deep and burning rage that Gotram recognised as the need to kill and destroy. Gotram hated this being as he had hated no other, he wanted the alien to die, he wanted its filth wiped from the universe. But sadly it was not yet dead.

The Purestrain's mouth opened and from within shot forth a barbed tongue, hung with glistening sacks containing Omnissiah only knew what. Gotram flung his head aside as the tongue darted for his skull-mask, missing by an inch. It drew back in an instant and stabbed again and again, each time nearly spearing Gotram through the face. The Sergeant had no choice but to fling himself backwards, pulling free his knife as he did so with a wet slurp. The Purestrain sagged slightly as thick blood poured from its side but it drew itself up and prepared to strike again.

Gotram crouched low in readiness to meet it once more but suddenly from the crowd of battle came Brother Ortal, the Reiver diving for the Purestrain's back with a cry of righteous condemnation. "No!" Gotram yelled but it was too late, the Purestrain flipped about with impossible velocity, reacting with a speed that made even a Space Marine's eyes water. Its Rending claws flashed and caught Ortal across the chest, tearing through his breastplate to leave behind gouges that spilt Transhuman blood. Ortal was flung to the ground and Gotram could not see if his Brother lived or not, yet his foolish charge had bought a second of respite.

Filled with righteous wrath Gotram leapt for the foe's back as the Genestealer spun about. Its claws flashed again but Gotram was not aiming for its heart and the talons passed harmlessly overhead as the Reiver went low. His shoulder hit the ground and he rolled between its feet, knife darting out to tear through the alien sinews behind its knees. The Purestrain screamed as its balance was lost, staggering drunkenly to one side and it stumbled. Instantly Gotram bunched up and brought both boots to his chest, then kicked upwards, driving his feet into the Purestrain's rear. The Genestealer screamed as it was propelled forward, foot claws digging at the bridge and arms lashing out at thin air but nothing could deny its momentum as it was sent hurtling over the side. Gotram rolled over and got to the edge just in time to see the Purestrain seized by a massive pair of reptilian jaws, clamping across its chest in a death grip. Rending claws tore at the snout but it was helpless to resist as the Crotalid dove under the water, carrying it away to drown in the waters.

One Genestealer had been defeated but two more yet remained. Gotram jumped to his feet and turned, expecting to find Jediah's corpse but to his utter shock the Lieutenant was yet standing. One Purestrain was staggering back, a vicious tear across its chest, the other was on its knees with Jediah's sword rammed into the back of its neck. The Marine was bloodied and battered, his armour smote most cruelly and painted purple by alien blood but the warrior was yet fighting. Jediah ripped his sword out and chopped downwards, bisecting an arm wrapped in Chitin as the Purestrain collapsed in a gory heap at his feet. Then Jediah spun to meet the second Genestealer with the shorn arm held like a weapon.

Rending Claws struck for his hearts but Jediah deflected this with the Chitin limb in his hand as his sword sliced across a shoulder blade. The Purestrain lashed out with another arm, tearing over his side but Jediah stuck upwards with the Chitin limb, tearing Rending Claws over its chest in a brutal uppercut. The Genestealer reeled from the unexpected blow and in that instant Jediah was upon it. His sword was lightning as it stabbed and hacked, dicing the hide to pieces. The Chitin limb slashed and gouged, slicing long furrows into the alien's flesh, its armour no match for its own kind's talons. The Purestrain was falling back desperately, unable to defend against two forms of attack and it's simple mind quailed as it tried to respond. Its arms went low to block a stab from the sword but in doing so left its head exposed. Jediah saw the opening and swung wide, slashing the Rending Claws of his improvised weapon across its neck, tearing clean through to decapitate the alien entirely.

The Genestealer froze for an instant, then it keeled over, head rolling free to leave Jediah standing triumphant over the body. The crowd of foes wailed at the sight, their vaunted elite had been bested and they began to retreat, falling back hissing and snarling like animals. Gotram breathed a sigh of relief as they withdrew along the bridge, almost doubling over as his gene-implants burned hot, working to restore his equilibrium and make good a score of wounds he hadn't noticed taking. Even a Primaris had limits and it would take a moment for his genhanced body to return to maximum efficiency.

He saw Ortal on the floor, clutching his chest where massed Larraman Cells were forming a dense knot of clots over his ragged wounds. Gotram didn't dishonour him by offering to help him up, such a display of weakness was intolerable, but he did say, "Ortal, are you going to die on me?"

"Not today," Ortal replied in a voice of suppressed pain, "Just glad we saw them off."

Gotram agreed but Jediah's head spun about as he barked, "Are you insane?! They're not retreating, they're forming a firing squad!"

Gotram's eyes snapped up and he saw that the Hybrids were indeed doing so. Their retreat had let them spread out along the stone walkway beside the churning waters and they were presenting lasguns and autopistols, far more than the Reivers could hope to withstand. Gotram's jaw dropped as he realised these Hybrids were no mindless mass of berserk drones, they could think and act tactically. Their Broodmind had failed to overwhelm the Space Marines with brute force and now it was changing tactics, determining that shooting them from afar was more effective than the hack and thrust of melee.

Ortal wobbled to his feet and spat, "Grit in the Cogs, looks like they remembered they have guns."

"I was counting on them forgetting that," Gotram muttered as he glanced over his shoulder, "We have to fall back to the far side."

"Too far, well never make it," Jediah snarled, "Quickly, target the far end of the bridge. Shoot the bridge!"

Gotram was stunned by the nonsensical order but he was conditioned to obey and his pistol was in his hand and a fresh magazine slammed home in a heartbeat. All the squad followed suit and let forth a volley of mass-reactive fire, aimed for the join of the bridge to the walkway. Bolt-rounds slammed into the Ferrocrete and bored within, detonating a second later, like small charges. The Ferrocrete span shuddered under the impacts, its ancient structure weakened by the passage of centuries and the erosion of water droplets. The rock cracked and crumbled under the onslaught, then it shattered, dropping a six foot length of stone diagonally into the frothing waters.

Gotram was dumbfounded as to what any of this had accomplished and saw the Hybrids raising their guns, preparing to slaughter the Reivers in one volley. Yet even as fingers tightened on triggers there was a ferocious roar as something huge and hungry burst out of the water. Jaws as long as a man's body, attached to a heavy head and scaled body, clawed its way up the ramp, driven by four clawed feet and a thrashing tail. It was a Crotalid and it propelled itself out of the water, driven into a feeding frenzy by the scent of blood in the water and the warm meat hovering just out of reach. With a ramp onto the balcony the Crotalid surged up into the packed ramps, its jaws snapping up three Hybrids in one lunge and knocking a dozen more off the ledge with the sweep of its tail.

The Hybrids panicked at the unexpected assault, turning their guns on it in a mad scrum. Las and solid rounds pattered off its hide, barely scratching the scales but it cared not. The Hybrids were stymied by their packed ranks, unable to bring concentrated firepower to bear and in the confusion they ended up shooting a lot of their fellows. The Crotalid surged forward, grabbing another pair of Hybrids in its jaws then diving off the ledge into the water with its prize. But there was no relief, for another Crotalid was climbing up the ramp, and another and another, forcing their way along the ledge in both directions as they tore through the packed Hybrids in showers of gore and blood. The Hybrids retreated but there was nowhere to run, they were cut off from the tunnel they had entered through and trapped against the hard walls of the Adequect. In a few moments they were all seized by hungry jaws, carried away into the water to be devoured at leisure.

The Space Marines were left on a spur of Ferrocrete, standing proud above the churning waters and Gotram gasped, "How did you think to do that?"

Jediah replied coldly, "For a true warrior everything is a weapon, even his environment."

Gotram was impressed but spied Hernaa's body and lamented, "They cost us a Brother."

"Casualties are inevitable," Jediah decreed, "Collect his weapons and ammunition, we need to move."

Gotram said, "I'll mark this spot in our armour logs, perhaps we can return and claim his body to have his gene-seed reclaimed."

"Doubtful," Jediah uttered, "We need to move twice as fast now."

Gotram was confused and said, "I thought we beat them."

Yet Jediah had already turned and was jogging towards the other tunnel as he proclaimed, "We beat nothing but one small tendril of the Broodmind. The rest of the filth will know we are here, we have to reach the heart of the infestation before they send everything they've got to finish us off!"


	20. Chapter 20

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 20**

The control room rang with frantic cries, three operators yowling distress at each other. Among the packed consoles and Hololithic displays they fought to restore order, only to be thwarted at every turn. To the common observer they would have looked like regular humans, displaying no fangs or claws or black eyes but a more detailed inspection would have revealed the placement of their muscles was slightly off, their joints bent further than they should and their lips drew back a degree too far. Genestealer hybrids, ones that were nearly but not quite human in appearance. They had been ordered to secure the Laboratorium-domes of the Genic Council, a task they were failing.

"Contact, sector nine!" one yelled.

"Not possible," another shouted, "He's just tripped a surveyor in sector three."

"What?!" a third barked, "I've got an alert in sector eleven, that's on the other side of the domes."

The three were shouting at cross purposes and the first waved frantically at his comrades as he snapped, "He can't be everywhere, he's only one solitary intruder. He has to be confounding the internal surveyors somehow."

"Maybe he's not alone," the second worried, "Maybe he's called in more Space Marines."

"Impossible, we'd have seen them," the first admonished, "He's alone. Focus on clearing out false leads and isolating his location. The Mother is angry, she wants the intruder dead and dissected."

The second bent over his consoles and said, "You're right, there's a malicious info-djinn crawling through the data-sphere. He's laid false trails for us."

"Then where is he?" the third asked in a worried tone.

Abruptly the door behind them was kicked open, revealing a huge giant in white Ceramite armour standing in the doorway. He was splattered with red and purple blood but it was unmistakably Memnos. The three Hybrids leapt from their seats with inhuman speed, hissing like feral animals but before they could attack Memnos was upon them. The first's neck he snapped with a lateral blow of his hand, the second he kicked to the ground with a blow that shattered the ribcage and drove splinters into the heart. The third he met with the drill bit of the Narthecium on his right arm, the whirring probe was designed to bore through a Space Marine's genhanced bones and it punched through the skull in an instant, splattering blood and brains everywhere.

The bodies fell at his feet and Memnos stepped over them, placing his flamer down so he could examine the consoles. He had used it liberally on his rampage but not in here, he needed these controls intact. For some time the Apothecary had been stalking through the depths of the corrupted domes and killed many of the security teams sent to hunt him down. So far he had emerged victorious but he was one Space Marine against hundreds of foes and would surely be overwhelmed eventually. Thankfully he had made three discoveries that had aided him.

First the entirety of the population was not infected; the Genestealer cult seemed to be limited to the savants and labourers of the Genic council itself. Thousands of people passed through these facilities on a regular basis and corrupting them all could not have escaped notice. It seemed the Genic council had continued their regular duties in public, while building up a nest of tainted hybrids in the shadows.

The second thing he had discovered was that their data-wards were pathetic, far below Imperial standards. Matters biological were their forte; info-security and Machine Spirits were not. As an Apothecary Memnos had a passing familiarity with cogitators and archive-stacks so his skills had been more than enough to access their Noosphere and sow havoc. They should have embraced Mechanicus adepts, Memnos thought, then he might have struggled to break into their info-nets. The Third thing he had discovered was that the facility had a number of interesting design features, ones he intended to exploit. It was the only realistic strategy; he couldn't burn this place down armed only with a flamer.

In moments Memnos had broken through their pathetic data-cyphers and found schematics of the building. His eyes scoured the plans and he noted two entire separate networks of corridors and workplaces, one for visitors to see and the other where the Hybrids must do their foul plotting. Yet both were connected by a single ventilation system. Memnos' lips drew back in anticipation as he spotted what he sought and committed the route to memory. His task nearly finished he input a series of commands, disabling several minor sub-systems and locking the ventilation systems open across the domes. Then he stepped back and took up his flamer.

Memnos checked the corridor outside was empty then squeezed the trigger, spraying promethium over the control centre. Consoles were bathed in flames, bodies burned and all the vital controls were destroyed. Memnos knew the hybrids would soon realise where he was and quickly strode down the corridor, counting his steps as he went. At a predetermined spot he stopped and faced the blank white wall, scouring it for hints. The illusion was good, damned good, but according to the schematic this was a connection between the pure public face and the hidden alcoves. There were no seams or joins but Memnos' boot made short work of the door, smashing it aside and revealing the passageway beyond.

He stepped into a dark interior and it was like moving from world to another. Outside everything had been cold and sterile, white walls and perfect silence, antisceptic surfaces and spotless purity. On the other side it was fetid and dank, the bare metal walls covered in condensation and furry moulds. Exposed pipes lined the roof, carrying Emperor only knew what deeper into the facility and the background noise was a deep rumble of heavy machinery, resembling the distant heartbeat of some mighty beast. The lighting was poor and the heat intolerably high for a regular human. It felt like a nest of some vile beast, a squalid lair for a creature from the dawn of mankind. A metaphor Memnos thought was more true than he liked to admit.

Swiftly the Apothecary advanced down the passageway, moving through his mental map of the interior. He was wary of guards and patrols but there was no resistance. He couldn't linger though, surely the guards must be closing on his location. He spent a moment wondering what lies they were telling the public scattered throughout the domes but decided it didn't matter, he had sowed confusion and panic and the bedlam would work in his favour. Not bad for an Apothecary and Memnos felt a note of pride as he thought Persion could scarcely have done better. Then he remembered where he had acquired those skills, the secret data-logs and falsified reports he had made of his sick experiments on Neophytes and his pride dissolved into bitter recriminations.

His self-loathing was thankfully interrupted as he reached a specific door and stepped within, only to be pulled up by the horror awaiting him. Inside the dank chamber were long rows of glassic tubes, standing upright and bubbling with amniotic fluids. They bore a passing resemblance to the sacred Sarcophagi of his Chapter's Dreadnoughts, which could keep a noble warrior an inch from death for millennia, save that they contained not fallen heroes but monsters. Inside each tube was a twisted amalgam of flesh and bone. Monstrous byblows of corrupt anatomy and biology that could never have lived for more than a few moments. Memnos beheld creatures with brains bulging outside their skulls, ribcages that spread outwards like grasping fingers and legs fused together into sinuous tails. There were faces that were nothing but teeth, bodies layered in heavy scales and limbs that sprouted eyeballs all along their length. Memnos had seen Chaos cultists that were less repulsive and his conviction to destroy this place hardened.

They were connected by snaking cables that littered the floor, leading up to humming logic engines, that Memnos suspected were cogitating Genic sequences from the preserved corpses. He stepped closer to a tube and spied a twisted amalgam of flesh bobbing in the fluid. He noted several features that were of Genestealer origin and disgustingly some that were human. Yet parts of it owed no allegiance to either form. Its skull was elongated and covered with fangs and its back by reptilian scales. A small plaque on the bottom read, 'Specimen 486-174-d: Crotalid'. His eyes roved over the chamber and he spotted more plaques, some reading: Canine, Felid, Avian, Grox, Panthir, Frostwyrm, Jokero, Fra'al. The implication struck him cold; the genestealers were attempting to splice animal and alien strands into their Genic sequences, stealing the traits of other lifeforms to blend with their own hideous corruption of the noble human form. It was well documented that Genestealers were associated with the Tyranid menace but this was a microcosm of the Great Devourer's ability to steal biological traits from others. This cult was trying to mimic the Hive Mind's skill for adaption and evolution.

Memnos' outrage could not have been more profound; this threat had to be destroyed. Every fibre of his being demanded he end this perversion of the natural order. Yet just then he heard a scuffle from behind a far door. Instantly he was moving, throwing his bulk against the flimsy partition, which flew wide. Behind that door lurked a woman in a red suit, holding a short dirk in hand. She had been trying to ambush Memnos as he entered but instead was caught off guard by a door slamming into her face, sending her staggering backwards.

Memnos' hand flashed out and seized her by the throat and as she fountained blood from her nose he snarled, "Xenos filth, your corruption ends today."

The surprisingly human-looking woman gasped, "No, no you can't be here! The Great Work must continue."

"Your perversions are finished," Memnos snarled, "You shall never let loose your monsters."

But woman kicked feebly as she cried, "The kiith must evolve! The strength of the Grox, the speed of the Panthir, the warp-jumps of the Crotalids, even the vigour of the Astartes shall be ours. The One God demands it!"

Memnos growled, "Your god is a swarm of hungry bugs, if they come to this world it will only be to feed. Your cult exists merely to be eaten and reabsorbed by the Hive Mind."

"You lie!" the woman shrieked, "My babies would never be sacrificed so!"

Memnos's eyes narrowed under his helm as he snarled, "Babies?"

It was then that he noticed lines of cots filling the second room. Rows of cribs, each one containing a small form. They were chubby and infantile but their alien nature was obvious: genestealer hybrids. Taloned hands, hissing maws and black eyes stared upwards in dull ignorance, a scene of parental love corrupted by a diseased mind into a parody of human reproduction. This was where the cult was breeding, this nest and others like it were where they spawned their filthy kind.

Memnos felt not a qualm of doubt as he lifted his flamer one-handed and squeezed the trigger, bathing the cots in purifying flame. The chamber erupted in an inferno, filled with tiny screams of agony as he killed the perversions with searing promethium. The heat washed over him but he stood firm as the woman screamed, "No! My babies! Not my babies!"

Memnos jerked his hand and snapped her neck, then dropped the corpse. He turned from the room and closed the doors, shutting off the flames for a moment. His actions pleased him, but it was only a start. He examined the chamber, as the flames crackled behind him and spied his objective: a glassic-fronted refrigeration unit, sealed by many locks and warning signs. He strode over to it and yanked it open, shattering a dozen locks with brute strength.

Inside was what he sought, shelves upon shelves of small vials, each one containing amniotic fluid. They were sample containers for viral clades, essential tools for bio-forming and gene-splicing but also dangerous weapons in the wrong hands, or at least they would be when Memnos was done with them. He hastily sorted through the vials, discarding those who would be slow in action or weren't airborne. Then his hand paused over a vial of Necromundian Necrotising Faucitis, a skin-eating bacterium of legendary virulence.

He double-checked his armour's seals were intact then drew it forth with a steady hand and unclipped a canister of aerosolized antiseptic from its holder. A sharp twist removed the contents and he replaced it with the vial, creating a means of spreading the microbe far and wide. The improvised weapon in hand he stepped to an airvent and placed the nozzle against the opening, then squeezed the trigger. A plume of gas ejected forth and was caught by the currents beyond, carrying microbes through the ventilation system. Memnos kept up a steady stream of gas until his canister was empty, then stepped back with satisfaction.

Even now the bacteria would be spreading through the facility, carrying spores far and wide and triggering alerts across the domes. Memnos knew a Genic facility like this would have numerous safeguards against dangerous contaminations, any facility that dealt with matters biological had to be wary of accidental exposures. History had shown many times what horrors happened to worlds where savants lost control of the things they created. As the bacteria spread the cogitators would be automatically trying to close the ventilation system, isolating the outbreak. Sadly Memnos had locked the vents open, allowing the contamination to spread rapidly. Airtight doors and anti-septic retardants had also been disabled by his malicious work, every safeguard crippled save one.

A roaring noise accompanied by many screams echoed through the door and Memnos smiled grimly as he heard tragedy unfolding. The last safeguard and ultimate ward: fire. The Machine Spirits would be scouring all infected areas with purging flames, which thanks to his efforts would be everywhere inside the domes. The genestealers' base of operations would be destroyed by its own defences, the alien menace struck a grievous blow by the wisdom of the ancient builders and the cunning of one Space Marine.

Memnos did not believe it would stop the cult, they must have spread far and wide but he had hurt them this day. Surely they would feel this wound most keenly, whatever plan they had in motion would be seriously hampered by the loss of their breeding pit. Memnos turned and strode out the door as thick smoke billowed down the fetid passageway. He had put paid to one threat but more awaited him. He would deal with them in turn, but first he had to escape this place and link up with his Brothers. They had to know what he had uncovered before it was too late.


	21. Chapter 21

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 21**

Las-fire fell from on high, scorching the ferrocrete surface with blazing energy. It was coming in at a steep angle, falling on their heads almost vertically and promising swift death. The only shelter was the balcony above their heads, a circular walkway that protruded from the wall but it was scant cover.

Manaar kept his feet well back as he returned fire. The simple Mon-Keigh las-pistols were primitive firearms, lacking the grace and elegance of Shuriken weapons. The Hybrids above them had lasrifles, longer-ranged and more powerful by comparison, but the wielders lacked the exceptional eyesight and precision of a superior race. Manaar lifted his pistols and let off a volley, blasting crude laser bolts up at the foes from a range any human marksman would have sworn impossible. Three Hybrids took shots through the eyes, their skulls blown open by searing energy and a fourth fell back, clutching his shoulder.

"Nice shot!" Eirk shouted as he swept his Hellgun about and let off a thundering retort. His fire was far less accurate but he made up for that with sheer volume, inundating the balcony above with shots that punched through the rockcrete and blew out the legs of their attackers. The Hybrids above them faltered, stumbling as their numbers were culled and Inquisitor Vevara yelled, "Quickly, move up!"

The Inquisitorial party were caught in some underground silo, a cylindrical shaft that bored down many levels into the ground. Manaar had no clue as to its function or history, but sadly it had made the perfect trap. The party had been crossing the bottom when they had come under fire, caught in a vice by the Genestealer Hybrids. The shocking revelation of the nature of their foes would have stumped a lesser soul but Manaar was an Aspect Warrior, his reflexes were keen and his experience broad. He had fought the bastard byblows of the Great Devourer before and learned never to be surprised by their insidious nature. The Inquisitor's retinue seemed equally immune to shock, hardened by years of treachery and betrayals no doubt.

Vevara sprinted for a ramp leading up another level and the rest followed on. They had already ascended many balconies but resistance was growing, now they were pressing on into the teeth of enemy fire with every step. Yet Manaar did not feel daunted, he exulted in it. The battle was unlocking the barriers in his psyche, allowing his darkest emotions to flow uninhibited. It was the nature of the Aspect Warriors, blood and death drew their warrior-selves to the fore, shifting his equilibrium to the violence of the Warp Spider. With every kill he felt his soul grow more bloodthirsty, more skilful and deadly and his heart thundered in his chest. Yet he was stymied in his ascension to his warrior state, he had not his armour nor had he partaken of the rituals of war, without those his mental locks could not be opened, he could not become who he needed to be.

As he ran he saw a gaggle of Hybrids racing to intercept them, pressing forward with bayonets and knives in hand. Yet as they drew close they stumbled and slowed, seemingly baffled and struck dumb at the last moment. It was Mortula, her Null Aura was affecting them. Manaar knew the children of the swarm communed through a group mind, somewhat like the Infinity Circuit but more insidious. The Sister of Silence broke that bond, leaving them alone and silent in their minds, it was painful for him but to the Genestealers it was agonising, stealing purpose from their souls. The Hybrids stumbled and then Mortula was amongst them. Her greatsword swept about and cleaved a head in twain and plunged through a heart. A kick from her armoured boot sent another screaming to his death many levels below and a punch floored another. She was a whirling dervish, lashing out in all directions and laying low their attackers. Her speed and skill were phenomenal, almost like a Howling Banshee's, and in moments she had slain half-a-dozen foes.

Her victory was short-lived however for more Hybrids were amassing above, raining down fire. The retinue threw themselves aside as Eirk yelled, "They've got us pinned!"

Vevara let off a beam of ravening purple energy from an exotic pistol as she shouted, "We need to flank them!"

"Not possible," Lumix stated as he fired a grav-pistol that crushed a foe into a tiny ball, "The enemy has an elevated position and superior firepower. The odds of our survival diminish by the second."

"Frak," Mortula swore as she threw her back against the wall, "We can't fight like this!"

"I'm open to suggestions," Vevara snapped as she fired her pistol again, racking the balcony above with purple beams.

Manaar saw the perilous state of their position and knew it was up to him to change it. He slotted his las-pistols into his belts and drew froth his grappling line as he cried, "Suppress the foe!"

"What are you doing?!" Vevara snapped.

"Asuryan's Blood," Manaar swore, "I'm saving you worthless apes."

He burst into a flat sprint, racing for the edge of the balcony. A flurry of covering fire flew over his head, racking the Hybrids above as he planted his foot on the edge and leapt into the open air. For an instant he soared over nothingness, feeling the blood racing through his veins with joy, then his hand flashed and his grapple shot away. The small hook sailed upwards and snagged the balcony and Manaar felt a jerk as his line went taught. Las-fire flew around him but his momentum carried him away in a long arc, moving too fast for the crude foe to target.

His feet struck the edge of the balcony they were standing on and he began to run sideways, dashing along the perimeter of the silo suspended from his line. This was the most dangerous moment, when his path would be predictable but that knowledge exhilarated him. The wind on his face, the lethal drop below, the achingly close shooting of his enemy set his soul ablaze. He was dancing with death and he loved every second of it. Perhaps this was how the Dark Kin of Commorragh felt all the time, living on the knife-edge betwixt life and death. No wonder the Path of the Aspect Warrior was so heavily restricted and disciplined, such passions were dangerous things.

Manaar's run had brought him nearly to his foe's location and he jumped as he hauled on the line. His heave sent him soaring aloft, rising above the foe's heads as he soared high. The Hybrids couldn't believe what they were seeing, their lasrifles tracking too slowly as he flew towards them. Then his laspistols were in his hands and he began to fire. Searing bolts felled two foes before his feet even touched the floor, three more collapsed with smoking holes as he swept his arms about, shooting them low in the guts. A pair tried to target him but he dove low, rolling between them and putting las-bolts into their groins as he passed. One last foe screamed as it tried to stab him with a bayonet but Manaar twisted and elbowed him in the back, sending him headfirst over the edge to smack into the ground so far below.

Manaar had bested this knot of enemies but his victory was short-lived. A glint of light was all the warning he had before the next attack came. Manaar ducked back as a spray of lasfire inundated the ledge he was standing upon, coming from two-dozen Hybrids on the topmost floor of the silo. They were presenting a line of lasrifles and firing constantly, heedless of any surviving kin that may yet breathe. Manaar clung to the back of the wall and saw he was alone, his allies were yet a floor below and could not get an angle to return fire. Las-bolts chipped the floor inches from his feet, only the girth of the balcony above his head was sheltering him. Moving from his cover would be suicide but staying here was not an option, a few Hybrids could keep him pinned indefinitely while the rest of them descended to finish him off. More than ever he longed for his Warp-jump generator, one brief translation could have brought him up behind them but it was not to be.

His eyes scanned the silo and he saw a sawn off wooden beam sticking out of the uppermost balcony. A run and a leap could see him catch the beam and swing around it, sending him high over the foe's heads. It was risky, he would be perilously exposed but he had no other options. The blood pounding in his ears demanded action, his unleashed emotions called for death and slaughter and his heart knew no fear. He tensed,preparing to make his gamble, but it turned out he didn't need to. A heartbeat before he could move there was a sharp retort, followed by the unmistakable thunder of bolter fire, a sound Manaar knew all too well. The Hybrids were caught in the flank by the unexpected assault and they fell in sprays of blood and bone, mass-reactive shells tearing them to pieces and leaving behind showers of blood and bone.

Silence fell at last and Manaar stepped out curiously, wary of further attacks. Nothing came from above but the rest of the party swiftly caught up, glancing high with confused expressions. Manaar gritted his teeth as Mortula's Null Aura settled over him but Vevara strode past him and marched up the last flight of steps, head held high. Manaar and the others followed, emerging onto the top flight only to be confronted by a ring of gaping pistol barrels. Manaar saw they were being held by Space Marines, ten of them in dark blue plate. Nine of them were wearing lighter armour than he had previously seen, marked out by skull-masks in a crude Mon-Keigh attempt at intimidation. The tenth was shorter, in heavier plate and a traditional helm. He spoke not but Manaar could read his body language like a book, the way he carried himself cried out that he was a deadly warrior and the way the others deferred to him denoted him as their leader.

Vevara did not seem intimidated as she ascended the stairs and declared, "Brother Jediah, we meet again."

This Jediah person replied, "Stand aside so we may kill the Eldar."

Manaar's grip on his pistols tightened but Vevara snapped, "I have no time for your bluster, there are bigger problems on this world."

Jediah retorted, "You haven't changed, still associating with untrustworthy foes. Trust not the alien, is that not what the Inquisition preaches?"

Vevara's eyes narrowed as she spat, "My methods are not for you to question! The Inquisition has discovered a Genestealer infestation and we have been battling towards its nest."

Jediah glared at Manaar but allowed, "We have encountered the same. These Genestealers have stolen the heir to the Governor, we intend to get him back and burn out the heart of this corruption."

Vevara nodded as she said, "Then it seems our goals align, we should work together."

Jediah sneered back, "That's not going to happen."

Manaar couldn't hold his tongue at the ignorance on display and spat, "You would squabble over petty differences when your species stands to lose a world?!"

Jediah glared at him as he growled, "Speak again, alien scum, and I will tear out your tongue. We don't need you to kill our foes."

"Really?" Vevara mused, "Then you have found a way to avoid the Broodmind's notice?"

A pointed silence greeted that remark, the Space Marines sullenly clamping their jaws shut. Vevara however elaborated, "We both know the Genestealers operate in a collective psychic consciousness, linking them together. A shared purpose and spirit, they are not many foes but parts of one greater whole. You can sneak about to your heart's content but they will find you and bring down a mountain of foes, numbers even you can't match."

Jediah sounded suspicious as he probed, "You have a way to disrupt this power?"

Vevara did an admirable job of not glancing at Mortula as she replied, "The Inquisition has the means, over a short distance. So long as you stay near me the Broodmind will be weakened."

Jediah was silent for a long moment then questioned, "Why do you care if we succeed or fail?"

Vevara answered, "Firstly because you are the God-Emperor's warriors and this is His world, letting you die does not serve His divine plan. And secondly I am an Amathalan, I believe in the divinely appointed order of the Imperium and its institutions. The Bassail line has governed this world loyally for millennia, their continued stewardship is preferable to letting this planet fall to the alien's claws. Recovering this heir is His will."

Jediah lowered his pistol a fraction then muttered, "We go into the heart of this filth, you may follow us if you wish but keep the alien on a short leash."

Manaar was no happier about this than the zealot but he interjected, "Finally you see sense but we still have no idea where to start looking. It is a maze down here and the Great Devourer's bastard offspring are everywhere."

Jediah didn't answer directly, instead bending over to scoop up the severed head of a hybrid. He thrust this into the hands of one of his followers and said, "Gotram, eat this."

The warrior shivered at the prospect, betraying his loathing of the idea as he said, "You want me to eat his brain, but it doesn't work that way. I can't absorb detailed information like reading a map."

Jediah glared at his errant underling and snarled, "Take his understanding for yourself, devour his instincts and habits. When you see the paths you will know what turns to take as if you had walked the route a thousand times yourself. Now stop being so weak and do it."

The protesting warrior lowered his head and pulled free a knife, starting to work the scalp off. Manaar however stepped back in disgust. He understood something of the Mon-Keigh's genhancements, the Eldar had spent thousands of years studying their foe. He knew the Space Marines could consume the instincts of their enemies via consumption but the practice disgusted him. He turned his back as the grizzly procedure played out, revolted by the squalor he had embraced. Every time he thought this species could get no more offensive they found new ways to revolt him, at least Orks and Tyranid were honest about their vile natures. He could only hope their plan worked, else he would be stuck down here for untold days and his quarry would slip away. For the sake of Furta-Rith this had better be over quickly so he could get back to his real mission.


	22. Chapter 22

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 22**

The path unwound before Gotram, revealing more of itself with every step he took. It was an unnerving sensation, letting his feet take him where they will, but he had no choice. He knew that he was close to his goal, though he had no idea where that certainty arose from, merely a result of the stolen memories he had consumed.

The Omophagea was a mysterious and poorly understood implant, its operation and secrets an enigma. Little was known and most of what was commonly held to be true was largely guesswork. Perhaps that strange polymath Belisarius Cawl had uncovered its secrets but if so he chose to keep that information to himself. Gotram had never used his implant in the field, most Space Marines avoided it where possible, but the feeling within him told him it was working. Deep within his subconscious mind information was being unpacked, taken from the brain he had consumed. The memories were jumbled and disordered and came to his conscious mind in a blurring sensation of experiences. He knew how it had felt to be a filthy mutant, an abdominal hybrid of human and alien. Their communal psyche and purpose had filled this being, driving it towards a goal it could not understand but trusted implicitly. Gotram observed this as an orbital surveyor observes weather patterns, the information was there but it did not impact him. But more importantly he had gained an instinctive understanding of the Hybrid's home and the route to its nest. He could not have drawn a map to the location if he tried but his feet knew the way, steering him through every turn as if he had walked it a thousand times.

Behind him came the rest of the party, the Reivers and the Inquisitor's Retinue. They were a gaggle of misfits and rogues and in Gotram's opinion the Eldar fit in amongst them seamlessly. He was honestly more trouble by the woman in silver armour with a great sword, something about her set his hackles rising, an instinctive loathing he couldn't quite define. At the very rear of the party came Jediah in his battered armour, Fractal-edged short sword in hand. Gotram could feel those cold eyes upon his back, predatory and judging. The Lieutenant had forced Gotram to eat the brain, though it had disgusted him and so pushed him ever further into the darkness within his own heart. Gotram didn't resent him though, for he was starting to understand the Lieutenant. Jediah had cut away all the trappings of the Astartes, honour, valour and tradition, to leave the pure core exposed: not warriors but weapons. Few of his kind understood this truth, they blinded themselves with ideals of nobility, but the emperor had forged not men but weapons to fight his wars. The threats assailing mankind in this age of woe were too terrible for mere men to face, only living weapons could face the horror between the stars and prevail.

Gotram's musings came to an abrupt halt as his feet took him to a dark archway. He waved the others down and they lurked by the entrance as he gazed within. Before him stretched a long hallway, stacked with boxes and guarded by two Hybrids. They were wearing ratty fatigues and filthy boots, but there was nothing shabby about the lasrifles they bore in their hands. Gotram made to stand up but was stopped by Inquisitor Vevara's hand on his arm as she waved the silver-clad woman forward. It seemed ridiculous to Gotram that she could approach them unnoticed yet as soon as she came near they seemed to sag, as if their minds were befuddled. For a moment their guard dropped and then she struck, two slashes of her Greatsword and they went down, collapsing into bloody heaps.

Jediah stood up and marched within, stepping over the bodies to examine one of the crates. He lifted the lid and declared, "Krak missiles."

The Imperial Guard soldier, Eirk, looked into another and said, "Rocket tubes, autocannons, demolition charges, las-packs… there's enough gear here to fit a small army."

"Where's it all come from?" Gotram wondered as they proceeded further along their route.

Vevara replied, "We heard from a local source that weapons had been smuggled into the undercity."

"This is worse than we realised," Gotram hissed, "They've got enough munitions to start a war."

"Or end one," Jediah muttered, "We have to stop them."

Gotram led them through a series of rooms, each stacked high with weapons. Gotram grew more concerned with every step but soon they reached a different place. They stepped out onto a high balcony, looking out over a large circular chamber. It looked like some vast auditorium, a place laden with tarnished brass and crumbling statues. Rotten seats stood on elevated platforms, separated by wide gaps and a huge crystal clock hung over the centre of the room, glowing softly. The sight of such faded magnificence underground flummoxed Gotram, as if some high nobleman's ballroom had fallen under the city and been built over. It took him a few seconds to scour the floor before he noted rail tracks buried under piles of filth and he realised he was looking at an underground transit hub, a subway station for passengers to travel through the city. It may well have laid here since before the Imperium arrived on Pascum and with this society's typical flair they had invested a great deal of time and effort into its beautification.

The place may have been abandoned by its builders but it was not deserted. Scattered about were numerous Hybrids, all wearing sturdy flack armour and carrying lasrifles and other armaments. They were notably taller and broader than the weak scum the Space Marines had already dispatched, their physique bulging with inhuman muscles. Some form of elite guard no doubt. At the centre of this gathering were a young man and a woman, bound by metal cables and sitting upon the dirty floor. They appeared to have been weeping, both of them and their heads were low in unconscious slumbers.

Jediah jerked his hand rapidly and the party spread out along the high balcony, making the most of the element of surprise. The Reivers took out grapple guns and silently drove their points into the damp stone, then fixed the devices to their belts. The Inquisitor and Jediah would have to make do with what they had. As he worked Gotram's genhanced hearing detected one Hybrid saying, "Why don't we turn 'em?"

Another growled, "Don't be daft, we need 'em clean and unsullied when the bodies are found."

"But why?" the first said, "Get a Brood-brother up 'ere to give 'em the Kiss and they'll be part of the Kiith."

"That ain't the plan," the other spat, "We needs 'em pure when they wash up in the alleys. Those fools upstairs will riot just as we wants but if anything's smells funny they'll catch on and it will all fall apart."

While they nattered Gotram took a shock grenade from his belt. The others did the same and on his nod they hurled the grenades over the railing. A disorienting shriek and blazing lights erupted, filling the place with bedlam and calamity and in that moment the Reivers pounced. Gotram's grapple unwound at a ferocious rate as he hurtled downwards and in seconds he hit the floor. He snapped free of his line and dove at the nearest foe, knife and bolt pistol in hand.

"For the Omniss…" was all he managed to cry before the beefy Hybird spun about and tried to ram a bayonet into his stomach. Gotram barely managed to twist aside as the point scored over his belly armour and the hybrid snarled at him with a mouth jammed with too many teeth. That shouldn't be possible, he should be blinded and reeling, not fighting back like a Wildman. Gotram stabbed downward but only managed to tear a deep furrow into the shoulder, making the monstrosity grin. The enemy threw himself at Gotram and tackled him about the waist, were he only human he would have been bowled over and even for a Primaris the impact made him rock back. Gotram stabbed down with his knife but the blade merely tore at the flak jacket, its power robbed by the reinforced fibres. Desperate for space Gotram dropped his arms and locked them around the biceps of his foe. He heaved upwards and brought their heads level, then drove his forehead into his enemy's face, shattering the nose. An open hand to the gut forced the Hybrid back but he swiftly regained his balance.

The Hybrid grinned around a broken nose as he leered, "The mother has blessed my genes with strength many times that of a normal man."

"Shame she didn't bless you with brains," Gotram snapped as he dove to one side.

It was then that the Hybrid noticed the frag grenade tucked into the front of its shirt, right where Gotram had left it. The Hybrid grasped at its clothes but was too slow to stop the soft crump that sent it flying backwards, its flesh torn to shreds by the blast. Gotram wasted no time to throw himself at the next foe, joining the embattled Reivers. Everywhere Primaris wrestled with Hybrids, at close range they should hold the advantage but the enemy was fierce and powerful. They wielded a variety of strange and macabre weapons, chain-flails, serrated shields, stabbing hook-blades and vibro-knifes. The Primaris hadn't been expecting a serious fight, but they were yet transhuman fought back with all their skill and ardour.

Gotram hacked and stabbed at foes, he cut and sliced and shot at point-blank range. Around him his fellows did the same but they were surrounded and outnumbered. Then Brother Gadwen took a knife to his spine and fell to his knees. The Hybrids closed in, eager for the kill but were stunned when Gadwen leapt to his feet and threw himself at them in a feral rage. His speed and power were magnified to incomprehensible levels as he tore a path through his foes. He was a mad dervish, uncaring for injury or pain. It was his Belisarian Furnace, the additional implant that granted Primaris one last burst of vitality when they were seriously injured and at risk of death.

The Hybrids were rocked back by Gadwen's mad charge and then the second wave hit them. A purple beam of energy stuck a Hybrid in the back and disintegrated him to flecks of ash, while another was shot by a Grav-blast, crushing him into a ball no bigger than a marble. Gotram saw the Inquisitor's party advancing, laying down covering fire. Eirk's Hellgun blasts punched holes into Hybrid's backs while the Eldar jumped vertically upwards, bouncing off a free-standing pillar to sail overhead as he rained down las-fire and cried, "For the pride of Furta-Rith!" The silver warrior was there too, her presence making the Hybrids reel in a way the Shock grenades had failed to do.

The Hybrids quailed under this fresh assault, and then Jediah charged into the fray. The Lieutenant tackled a Hybrid from behind and tore out its spine, then he slit the throat of another before disembowelling a third. In one charge he turned the tide of the battle and Gotram leapt to follow but then a larger foe appeared. From the packed ranks of the foe came a giant Hybrid, easily Jediah's height and even broader. He was covered in scales and on his forearms were two bulky devices, like stacked leaves. Jediah hesitated not as he threw himself at the foe but his head was nearly taken off as the foe swung at him and the bulky devices oscillated outwards like a fan. Extending blades shot out into a circular shield, centred on a metal buckler but the edges were sharpened with the distinctive gleam of monomolecular filaments.

Jediah was forced to duck to avoid having his head taken off by the whirling blades and he fell back as the brute screamed it's frustration. It chased him step for step, arms swinging wildly and its small piggy eyes filled with unthinking hatred. Gotram tried to see a way to intervene but was beset by other foes, he could only fight on as Jediah duelled alone. As he hacked at his foes Gotram saw Jediah dodge a slash and strike back, but his sword deflected off a rounded shield, their value for defence matching their offensive ability. The brute leered as it retracted its blades and came at him with a punch that folded Jediah over his midriff. The Hybrid roared as its other fist rose high, preparing for one last blow to finish him off. Yet as it struck Jediah twisted hard and rammed his shoulder forward.

The blow merely glanced off his pauldron, crumpling the Ceramite but failing to reach the warrior within. In return Jediah's boot came up between its legs and there was a soft thump as he smashed its groin hard. The Hybrid collapsed to its knees, eyes filled with agony and Jediah grabbed its right arm, bringing it across the brutes' collar. Somehow he found the means to trigger the fan-blades and the oscillating leaves shot out, swinging around at lightning speed to close the circle. The Hybrid's neck was caught within the arc of its own blade and the monomolecular edge cut through flesh and bone effortlessly, spraying blood in a wide circle. The brute was still for a moment, then toppled over, missing a head and leaving Jediah standing triumphant, holding the fan-blades in one hand.

The foe fell at Jediah's feet and Gotram saw the rest of the Hybrids were dead and the field was clear. He hastily checked on Gadwen, who was yet breathing, though he shook with come down from his Furnace. Gotram felt a score of wounds burning and hissed, "That was too close."

Jediah was playing with the fan-blades, retracting and extending them thoughtfully as he muttered, "We still won."

Gotram frowned as he said, "Are you going to play with that or help us?"

Jediah looked up as he clipped the closed fan to his belt and ordered, "Grab the mortals, we need to move."

Gotram moved to obey but as he lifted a limp body wrapped in chains the station rang with echoing hisses. Feral, angry hisses born from alien throats not so far away. Gotram recognised that noise and cried, "A Purestrain!"

The Eldar barked, "Your ears are blunt, that is many, many Purestrains."

"How many?" Vevara snapped.

"Too many to fight," the Eldar replied grimly.

"Warp hells," Jediah cursed, "Hurry, grab the weaklings and run. We've got what we came for, now we have to get out again!"


	23. Chapter 23

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 23**

Gotram rested against a stone buttress as he leaned out of cover and peered downwards. His helm was off, revealing his grizzled face and his concerned expression. He was hanging from the high roof of some form of underground transitway, many levels deep and lined by reinforced columns and archways. The Imperials had attempted to retreat from the oncoming Purestrain Genestealers via the route had entered but swiftly been cut off from their exit. Enemies were everywhere, lurking in every direction, so they had come this way seeking to escape their pursuers, who were many.

Far below packs of Purestrains scoured the floor, sniffing the ground as they sought a scent. Gotram knew their sense of smell rivalled a Mastiff's and would be relentless in their hunt. It was surprising they hadn't found the Imperials already, but whatever mysterious power the Inquisitor concealed seemed to be confounding their stalkers, creating a blindspot the enemy couldn't quite find. Gotram glanced over at Vevara who was staring downwards, standing next to the silver warrior, Mortula they had called her. The three of them had volunteered to scout ahead, seeking a clear route to the surface, only to nearly be caught in a trap.

Gotram stiffened as he saw another pack of Genestealers creeping along the floor below. Scores of them surrounding another of far greater dimensions. This one loomed over its lesser kin, with arms as wide as Gotram's chest and a stooped spine. Its jaw boasted rows upon rows of teeth and its tongue hung low out of its mouth. Its back had serrated spines growing out of the vertebrae and its head was swollen and bulbous. One looked was enough to give Gotram pause. He was confident in his own skills and strength but not arrogantly so, a Reiver had to learn to be a keen judge of danger and as he measured his skills with a knife against this one he did not like the conclusion he drew. In ordinary circumstances he would have avoided this one entirely and dealt with it by calling in an airstrike, or an orbital bombardment, but sadly that wasn't an option.

The packs of Genestealers were passing by, the Inquisitor's strange protection shielding them from detection once more. Gotram was relieved but decided not to risk further detection. They had learned what they needed to, it was time to get out of here. He attracted Vevara's attention with a waved hand, not chancing being heard even from this height, and signed them away from the edge. They withdrew silently, inching back with infinite care along the buttress. The Genestealers below moved on without any sign that they had seen the Imperials, leaving the transept behind as they swarmed into the gloomy depths. Gotram didn't say a word as they fell back, keeping utterly silent as the three of them ducked into a small maintenance access corridor. It was narrow and cramped and Gotram had to walk in a hunchback fashion, lest he bash his head on the ceiling. Vevara led the way and Mortula followed and the three of them quickly proceeded along the passageway until they reached the junction of several passages.

Gotram straightened up with a sigh of relief as he entered the space, cricking his neck to relieve the tension. Within the cramped space waited for the rest of the party: the retinue, the Reivers and Jediah. The Lieutenant didn't look happy, not that he ever did, but having to wait behind while Gotram got to scout ahead was clearly irking him. It couldn't be helped though, his Mark VII armour was loud and noisy, unsuitable for stealth work at the best of times and in its torn condition it was growling angrily. Gotram noted Jediah had kept the fan-blades he had wrested from the enemy, but wasn't about to pass comment. At the back of the room Brother Gadwen leant against a wall and clutched his guts, he looked pale and was shivering, not from his injuries but from withdrawal. The Belisarian Furnace was potent but it came with a heavy price, the cocktail of hyper-adrenaline and aggression boosters it disgorged into the blood stream took a toll in pain and vitality, leaving the recipient weak and ragged. Thankfully the new Primaris paradigm had another extra organ Firstborn Astartes lacked, the Magnifcat, to balance the effects and stabilise the warrior but sometimes it could be hair slow to kick in.

There were two others present, the mortal heir they had rescued and a young woman with blonde locks. Both of them looked sick and teary-eyed, barely able to comprehend what had happened to them. They had awakened sometime after being carried away and had babbled ceaselessly in dismay until Jediah had threatened to cut out their tongues if they betrayed the party's location. In Gotram's opinion the pathetic boy wasn't worth rescuing, but the mission objective was absolute. Goddun was to be brought back alive, that was the objective, though if the Planetary Governor thought he would be of any use in the future then she was kidding herself.

Jediah looked impatient as he snapped, "Report."  
Gotram sighed, "There's no way past. As we suspected, the Genestealers are out in force. There are hundreds of Purestrains swarming the depths looking for us. They cover every exit to the surface."

Eirk hefted his Hellgun and declared, "Then we punch a path through them with raw firepower."  
The Eldar interjected, "Foolish bravado. We cannot fight such numbers directly. You must outthink your foes, not charge in heedlessly like idiot Mon-Keigh always do."

The Space Marines bristled at the Xenos daring to address them and Jediah snapped, "Open your mouth again, alien scum, and I will rip your head from its shoulders."

Inquisitor Vevara butted in to say, "He's not wrong though, we are surrounded and outnumbered. We can't hide for long; they will catch our trail soon."  
Gotram looked at her and queried, "I thought you were screening us with your Inquisitorial secrets."  
"Only Psychically," Vevara admitted, "All it will take is for one Purestrain to sniff our scent trail and its all over."

Mortula added, "Then there's the other thing."  
Jediah eyed her as he hissed, "What other thing?"

Gotram informed him, "We saw something with them, a monstrous beast. Bigger and more dangerous than anything we've seen so far. Forget the foes were dispatched already, they're nothing but chaff, that creature is a threat unlike anything I've seen before."

Jediah's eyes narrowed as he hissed, "You don't think it could be…"  
Vevara finished for him, "It's their Patriarch."

Gotram shuddered, for Patriarchs were creatures of nightmare. Tales abounded of the beating hearts of Genestealer cults, the oldest and most grotesque Purestrain of the infestation, probably the first to arrive on this planet and founder of their bloodline. The Patriarch would be the nerve centre of their organisation and the keystone of their Broodmind. As if that wasn't bad enough they were infamously powerful and deadly foes, many Space Marines had fallen to their vicious claws and prodigious strength and tactical doctrine usually demanded the presence of a full Company to take one down in combat.

Jediah's eyes however gleamed as he speculated, "If we could kill it we would cripple this infestation."  
Gotram shook his head as he countered, "Ten Space Marines against that? Not in this lifetime."  
Vevara added, "Besides the mission is to retrieve the boy, not engage in forlorn escapades. We need to exfiltrate and come back with serious reinforcements."

Suddenly there was a soft whimper and everybody turned to look at the pair they had rescued. Goddun looked bereft as he said, "Please don't leave us alone down here."  
The girl, Petalia she called herself, sniffed, "It's… its been a nightmare. The things they said to us, the threats they made."

Gotram snorted, "If talking to you was the worst they did then count yourself lucky. You'd be dead if we hadn't rescued you."  
The pair clutched at each other as Goddun whimpered, "It was supposed to be the start of our adventure. We were to fly to the stars together. Odrin promised to take us to a better life."  
"And you believed him?!" Eirk snorted, "Throne, stupidity like deserves a lasbolt to the head."

Yet Vevara stepped up and hissed, "Odrin? The First Secretary?"  
Goddun nodded as he explained, "Yes, he smuggled us out, he promised us we would be safe."

Gotram's ire rose as he remembered that slimy weasel lurking at the Governor's side. So smug and superior, it wasn't surprising he was mixed up in this. Gotram had thought him a typical double-faced politician but it seemed he was much worse, he was involved with the cult, there could be no doubt of his guilt. The Sergeant hissed, "Odrin, I should have known not to trust him."  
Vevara's eyes hardened as she said, "When we get back the first thing I will do it nail him to an excruciation rack and burn some answers out of him."

"Good plan," Erik affirmed, "But we still have to get out of here."  
Gotram sighed, "An army lies between us and the surface and we are hysterically outnumbered."

Goddum looked up and pleaded, "But you're Space Marines, the God-Emperor's Finest, you can fight your way out."  
Gotram shook his head as he replied, "We're Reivers, infiltrators and sabotage units. Part of that is knowing what you can and can't do, knowing what risks are worthwhile and what is suicide. I'd fight off a hundred Hybrids with ease but the same number of Purestrains… no, that's not happening."

Vevara tapped her lips thoughtfully as she mused, "What we need is a distraction."  
It was then that Jediah growled, "No… what we need is a decoy."

Gotram was forced to step back as Jediah sprung into life, striding past him with a purposeful step. He took one, two, three steps and then grabbed Petalia by the shoulder and heaved her up against a wall. Everybody started in surprise and Gotram opened his mouth to question the Lieutenant's intent but before he could speak Jediah's sword flashed, tearing across the girl's abdomen in a deep and vicious cut. The girl screamed in pain as her belly was sliced open and blood poured down her legs. She struggled pitifully in his grip but it was too late, the wound was a fatal one. Then Jediah dropped her at his feet and turned away as the girl's eyes went wide and she clamped her hands over the blood pouring out of her guts as her pained cries rang loudly. She desperately clung to the gaping wound as slick fluid coated her fingers and sought to keep her entrails from spilling out on the dank floor.

"What are you doing?!" Gotram gaped in disbelief.  
"Providing a decoy," Jediah replied not looking back at his wailing victim.

Gotram was stunned by the callous disregard for an innocent life. He had slain hundreds, if not thousands, of heretics and traitors but never an innocent; at least not up close and personal. All he had ever heard from the Firstborn Astartes were words of honour and duty but Jediah had just violated every tenant he'd heard the Storm Heralds spout. Gotram had known the Lieutenant was different, but not how much different, he had still tried to idolise Jediah and to justify his callous nature. For the first time Gotram grasped that Jediah cared nothing for justification, he had no shred of honour in his soul and cared nothing for the principles that underpinned an Astartes' life. Jediah was no warrior, no Champion or Defender of mankind: he was a murderer.

The stunned silence was split as Goddun gasped, "Petalia! No, what are you doing?!"  
Jediah faced him squarely and said, "Her blood will draw the Purestrains and while they are busy eating her, we shall escape."Goddun looked like he was about to be sick as he cried, "What?! But… no, we can't leave her. I won't…"

His protest was cut off as Jediah thumped him about the head with an open palm, knocking him senseless. He grabbed the toppling youth and slung him over his pauldron as he began striding towards another exit and ordered, "We're moving out."

Vevara fell in at his side as she said, "The scent of blood will spread fast. We better move fast else the Purestrain will swarm us."

Gotram stared at her as he gasped, "You approve of this?"  
Vevara sniffed, "The boy is a mission-critical asset, the girl is not."

Gotram had no response to that and Jediah was already leaving, so he fell in at his Lieutenant's side. Petalia looked up in horror as the Space Marines turned their backs on her and she reached up with a blood-slicked hand, pleading for aid, "Help.. please help. Don't leave me." Gotram couldn't even look at her, at her feeble entreaties not to be left alone in the dark. She was trying to stand up but her legs couldn't work. She was losing blood fast, sitting in a pool of her own vitae and she would bleed out in minutes. Gotram could only try to convince himself she would die of shock before the Genestealers found her; it would be a more painless end if she did. So he left her, a piece of his soul withering as he forsook mercy and honour and willingly followed Jediah into the darkness.


	24. Chapter 24

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 24**

Odrin wasn't running, he certainly wouldn't do that, but there was haste to his step as the darkness under the world enveloped him. He hurried along abandoned railways lines and slid down metal ladders, crossing an underground aqueduct with barely a glance at the frothing waters. He was treading paths he hadn't walked since his childhood but he remembered the route like it was yesterday, twists and turns he had committed to memory long before his rise to power. The First Secretary had abandoned his long coats and heavy symbols of office, switching for a tight jacket and baggy trousers that left him free to move. He also bore a laspistol in a holster on his belt, he knew the undercity was filled with dangers and wild animals and had no intention of ending up as some mindless creature's dinner.

As he walked he had plenty of time to gnaw on the reason he had fled the Jade Citadel, the unexpected turn of events that had upended his world. Only a few hours earlier it had all been going so well, the heir was out of the way and Aleys Bassail was in total panic, ordering a complete lockdown of her home, sealing everybody inside and cutting off the outside world. The lack of news from the centre of government would send the city into a panic, stirring up rumours and discontent. The Viscount had been livid, demanding to know what was going on, a rage Odrin was stoking with careful snubs and evasions. Tensions were mounting swiftly, soon it would be time to trigger the rebellion. Then it had all gone wrong.

It was all the Imperial's fault. Odrin had manoeuvred them into the depths and sent word to the Kiith to have them eliminated. It should have been easy, his collaborators had every advantage conceivable, numbers, arms, knowledge of the environment, victory should have been assured. Then came smuggled reports from the dark. Whispers of slaughter in the depths, of hundreds being gunned down by Ceramite giants. In the railway lines Devastators had slaughtered foes with relentless Heavy Bolter fire. In the sewers giants had blasted waves of attackers with deadly crossfires while a warrior with a burning axe hewed foes like fallen logs. In the aqueduct system skull-masked killers had unleashed the beasts themselves onto their enemy. Of the Inquisitor there was no sign, she had been sighted marching into the undercity and then vanished, as if she had some means of befouling the Kiith's sight. Odrin hadn't believed it at first, surely this wasn't possible, but then he remembered that Pascum hadn't felt the boot tread of an Astartes in centuries and it dawned on him that the legends of the Angels of Death were not embellished. He had badly underestimated the Space Marines, they all had.

Then only an hour before he had seen the smoke rising from the Genic Council's home. From a high window in the Jade Citadel he had watched flames consuming the domes and spires of the ancient guild, a centre of Genic purity that had stood for millennia collapsing in on itself. Even to Odrin that place was a closed book, but he knew the Kiith had agents within, working to subvert the practices of Pascum to their own ends. One Space Marine had marched within, one Apothecary all alone. His death was certain, or so Odrin had thought. As he watched the fires growing he realised his plan had failed, all his decades of scheming had been undone in hours and he determined the time had come to save his own skin. The Jade Citadel had been in lockdown, but Odrin knew many secrets and had made sure one exit to the Undercity was unguarded. He had slipped out when nobody was looking, well aware that soon someone would notice his absence and his treachery would be exposed. Best he be far away when that happened.

He was brought to a sudden halt as he felt something he had not experienced in many years. A warm, throbbing inside his skull, like soothing fingers massaging the back of his head. It coursed through him, sending his nerves into tingling waves of sensation. It was the feeling of home, the call of kin and kind, drawing him to them. It was the shared consciousness of the Kiith, the communal bond that gave them purpose and brotherhood, making them one in spirit and in blood. Odrin hadn't been a part of it for years, his association with the Imperials and their damnable Psykers and Astropaths meant he had been required to operate alone, but now it filled him with its siren call.

Of their own volition his feet took him left, down a descending flight of stairs that had once served hundreds of commuters in ages past. He walked with confidence only to be brought up short as he was confronted by three guards. Two of them were inhumanly warped, mutated hunchbacks with bulging muscles. These were the less salubrious members of the Kiith, those born too divergent to pass on the surface. While hidden agents furthered their agenda among the populace these ones born were confined to the undercity for life. Still they served their purpose as guards and enforcers, using the lasrifles they bore to good effect. But the third was different, a chitin-clad beast with four arms and vicious fangs: a Purestrain.

Odrin smiled as they brought up their weapons and spread his arms out to show he was friendly. The Purestrain jerked nearer, its head bobbing up and down as it peered at him. Odrin was not concerned, he could feel the connection between them, the sense of family that came with the Broodmind. They were both aspects of the same greater whole, flowing from the same font and their kinship was obvious. It seemed the Purestrain agreed for it backed down, letting him pass and Odrin walked on with a parting, "I thank you, Brood-Brother."

He continued down the steps and found himself entering an abandoned rail station, one whose glory was long tarnished. He pulled up short when he entered for the place was strewn with bodies, piles of dead laying across the raised platforms and corroded rail lines. Hybrids stared upwards with dulled eyes, their bodies sundered by mighty blows and explosive rounds. Hardened warrior-forms, gene-bred for lethality, had been ripped to shreds, blasted and cleaved by terrible wounds that left pieces of them laying everywhere. One glance was enough to tell him that the Space Marines had done this, yet that was not the most shocking thing. The truly amazing thing was the sight of Matriarch Tyvis, standing among the dead with a fierce glower.

Odrin's jaw dropped as he spluttered, "What are you doing here?!"  
Tyvis looked up impatiently as she spat, "Isn't that obvious?"

Odrin slowly paced nearer, struggling to comprehend as he said, "You're part of the Kiith?"  
Tyvis sneered, "Is that what you think, and here I thought we bred you for brains. I am not part of the family, I am the Kiith!"

With that her eyes flared darkly, her will lashing Odrin through the Broodmind. He felt the sheer force of her mind, the psychic potential flowing through her. She was not the source of this power, she was merely a conduit but she was the most potent and focused avatar of the gestalt consciousness Odrin had ever felt. She was the nexus and focusing lens for the Kiith's power, the Magus of the Genestealer Cult.

"You're the Mother?!" Odrin gasped, "All this time and I never knew."  
"You weren't required to know," Tyvis snapped, "You had a part to play and one slip would have given us away."

Odrin snorted, "That hardly matters, the secret is out now we've been exposed."  
"You don't have to tell me that," Tyvis sneered, "One pathetic Apothecary laid waste to my home, undoing priceless gene-craft that had taken decades to produce. Our finest stock went up in flames; our breeding pits are charnel houses and our cover is blown."

Odrin sighed, "A shame but it couldn't have lasted forever. Sooner or later we had to emerge into the light."  
"Not so early," Tyvis snapped, "Not before you were in place to rule the planet. With you keeping order we could have spread our Kiss throughout the population, subverting millions to our cause. By the time the dupes realised something was wrong we would have owned the planet. Now we are merely thousands, when we should have been millions."

Odrin shook his head and said, "Then we must move fast, kill the whelp and leave his body out today. Start the riots that will overthrow the Governor, before the Imperials can stop us."  
"They already have," Tyvis hissed, "This is where we were keeping the heir, they took him from us."  
"They what?!" Odrin yelped, "How could you be so careless?!"

Tyvis's eyes flared and her will washed over him as she growled, "Careful, remember who you speak to. I own you never forget that. We were prepared but the Imperials eluded our watch somehow; they have a power to pass unseen. The Broodmind grows confused, our eyes are blinded and our ears stopped. By the time we can close in on the disruption they have already relocated. Still it wasn't a total loss; we recovered the girl's body."

"The girl is nothing!" Odrin spat in vexation, "The boy was the one we needed, without him we have nothing."  
"Then what do you suggest?" Tyvis sneered.

Odrin reluctantly said, "We go silent and run far. We leave a token force in the city for the Imperials to fight while we scatter our Brood-Brothers across the planet. The off-worlders will exterminate those who remain and then pat themselves on the back for a job well done, while we start over somewhere else."

Tyvis's lip curled as she snorted, "Run and hide… never."  
"We must," Odrin protested.

But Tyvis' will surged and Odrin felt her anger settle over him as she growled, "Centuries of patient breeding, keeping our public face spotless, all to be wasted. No, I won't allow it. We still have arms and troops waiting throughout the city. We have your allies in the other cities and in orbit. We shall strike, openly and with full force and take what is our due."

Odrin felt her mind pressing on his spirit, demanding his obedience, but he fought back as he protested, "But we need the common folk's rebellion to aid us, we don't have the numbers to overthrow the Imperium alone."

"We have more than you know," Tyvis sneered, "Our numbers are legion, we no longer require secrecy. I see it now, that was our mistake, trying to fight the Imperials while keeping our veil on. We have been fighting with one arm tied behind our backs, no wonder we fell short. No more, our hour is at hand. We shall strike with our full might. No more holding back, no more secrecy. We shall sweep the Imperials from this world and crush the Astartes with sheer weight of numbers. Then we shall call the One God from the stars to claim its due."

Odrin was sweating profusely as he forced his jaw to utter, "But what of the common folk?"  
"Let them burn," Tyvis uttered as she stared upwards with a fanatical light in her eyes, "Let them bleed and scream and run to their overlords, the panic and confusion will serve our cause. We shall tear down their temples and their palaces, crush their law courts and precincts. You shall contact your allies and tell them the time has come, I want civil war across this whole world while we secure the capital and then the people shall learn to obey me!"

Odrin could barely speak, so strong was the will crushing his spirit, but he gasped, "It's… too soon."  
Tyvis turned her full attention on him and Odrin's knees went weak as she barked, "You will do this, my servant. Else face the wrath of the Grandfather."

From the shadows beyond Tyvis came a lumbering giant, a stooped monstrosity of claws and fangs. It loomed over them all as talons as long as a man's arms flexed and a long tongue hung with a sharp ovipositor twitched in the air. Eyes as black as the space between stars fixed Odrin in their gaze and he felt his will fold as the Genestealer Patriarch looked down upon its errant spawn. Faced with the wellspring of his blood Odrin had no choice but to submit, he bowed before the embodiment of the Broodmind and knew soon Pasdem city would burn.


	25. Chapter 25

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 25**

"Genestealers? You're sure it's really Genestealers?" Persion asked with a note of scepticism. The Lieutenant was on the surface, standing in a vacated timber warehouse. The place was piled high with untreated beams of wood, filling the air with the scents of sap and shavings while red light poured in through a skylight. Persion had returned from the depths and signalled for a rendezvous and the warehouse had been the first convenient location he had found, so he had promptly chucked out the workers and owners. Their feeble protests dying on their lips when a blood-splattered Space Marine loomed over them.

Persion's amour had been chipped and scored by battles in the depths, and his proud colours were stained with enemy blood. He carried his Friction Axe in hand, its single blade glowing warmly as it burned off the remains of the foes he had slain. His Space Marines had been ambushed in the sewer network, beset by waves of filthy scum who charged them with no regard for their own lives. It hadn't mattered though, the Intercessors of Sergeant Yones' squad had decimated them with precision crossfires while Persion dismembered any who got too close. After breaking out of the ambush they had scoured the area, only to find ever more enemies closing in. These they had slaughtered too, until finally none had remained then they had returned to the surface.

Persion looked around at the gathering, seeing the others impatiently waiting. Sergeant Zeax glared frostily, his Devastators had been ambushed too and had exhausted an awful lot of their ammunition in a sustained firefight. That was nothing though to the report of Memnos, who had turned up burned and battered after laying waste to the Genic Council. Most surprisingly of all was Jediah, who had lost a Reiver in the depths but gained an Inquisitor and her retinue, along with that useless heir who sat rocking back and forth muttering to himself, lost in some nightmarish memory. Persion didn't care what the boy did, so long as he was quiet about it.

Sergeant Gotram spoke up, "We are certain. I've seen the Purestrains up close, we are facing a Genestealer cult."

Yones shook his head and said, "We saw plenty of mutants but we didn't see any signs of Genestealers."

Yet Memnos affirmed, "I have seen their breeding grounds and felt the power of their psychic touch. There can be no question that they are Genestealers."

It was a shocking revelation but Zeax muttered, "I don't believe this, you're exaggerating the threat."

From the back of the room the Eldar sneered, "Blind Mon-Keigh, open your eyes and see what is right in front of you!"

Everybody bristled at the Xenos daring to address them and Jediah growled, "That's it, I'm cutting out his tongue."

Yet Yones rolled his eyes and countered, "Don't threaten the alien for being right."

Jediah glared at him as he hissed, "He who tolerates the alien, shares the guilt for its crime of existing."

Yones snapped, "This isn't the time to quote scriptures. We have bigger problems than one lone alien, we face a full-blown infestation."

There was a snort of derision from Zeax, "You believe this nonsense?"

"I do," Yones replied confidently, "The Great Devourer is insidious, only one creature can start an infection that will corrupt an entire population."

Zeax sneered, "If so they must have been here for centuries, growing in number and taint. You really think they could pass unnoticed for that long?"

Persion noticed Memnos staring at him and the Apothecary inclined his head to prompt the Lieutenant to intervene. Persion belatedly realised this was degenerating into an argument and he was supposed to be keeping them focused. He spoke up, "Cease your bickering, Memnos says there are Genestealers on Pascum, that's good enough for me. The question is: what are we going to do about them?"

Voices quieted but Yones thoughtfully rubbed his chin and asked, "What sort of threat are we facing, is the whole planet infected?"

Memnos answered him, "Not from what I saw, the Genic Council was hiding their corruption behind sterile walls and humdrum activity. They were breeding their tainted spawn in secret, while keeping up their regular duties in public. I doubt they have tainted the majority of the population. I suspect they would try to seize power before attempting such a feat."

Inquisitor Vevara broke her silence to muse, "That is not their typical Modus Operandi. Genestealer cults tend to grow in the shadows, building in numbers until they feel the call of the Tyranid Hive Fleets. When the Bioships approach they rise up and attack the defences, creating bedlam behind the lines at the worst possible moment."

Persion swallowed in apprehension as he fretted, "Do we suspect a Hive Fleet is closing?"

Zeax replied, "I doubt it, we shattered their Splinter Fleet at Angle's Redoubt and the Imperial Navy has been busy running down stragglers for years. If a sizeable fleet were closing, we'd know about it."

Persion chewed his lip as he mused, "Perhaps a lone Bioship was wandering by the stellar system, enough to trigger the cult, but pass unnoticed."

From the back of the room the Eldar declared, "If you relent from cutting out my tongue I will tell you why they move today."

Persion glared but Yones said, "Go on, we won't shoot you… this time."

Safe for a moment the Eldar explained, "My race sees the turn of the galaxy and the start and end of time. The Rhanda Dandra began with the Great Rift your kind unwittingly opened. The baleful energies of the Ruinous Powers spill forth in torrents, stirring up many sleeping scorpions. The call rings forth to all who can hear. A Psychic Awakening sweeps across the galaxy. These corrupt creatures probably don't know it but their Broodmind will have been stoked to a frenzy by the touch of Chaos. A call to disorder they instinctively follow."

Persion rubbed his forehead and groaned, "It hardly matters why this is happening, all that matters is that they have revealed themselves. So, what are we going to do about it?"

Zeax spoke first, "I say we take off and level the entire city from orbit."

Memnos glared at him and spat, "Kill innocent civilians?!"

Zeax scoffed, "One little city, weighed against billions on the planet. Kill them all and let the Emperor sort out the innocent from the corrupted."

Memnos snapped, "We don't kill innocents."

Heads nodded but Gotram muttered, "I'm not so sure about that."

Persion didn't know what he was so miserable about but declared, "Captain Toran would never condone such an act, he'd demand we stay and fight the enemy."

It was a bold statement but Jediah hissed, "Toran's not here and doing things his way will get us killed."

Persion glared at his Brother but Vevara cut them off, "It wouldn't work, these spawn lurk deep underground and you brought a frigate, not a Battlebarge. You'd need repeated Magma-bomb salvos to burn them out. Besides, you assume they are concentrated in one city but we have no proof of that, they could have spread their seed across the globe. We need to root them out of hiding and uncover how far they have roamed."

Persion sighed, "We haven't the numbers, we are thirty Brothers against Emperor knows how many foes."

Yones cocked his head and said, "I've got an idea: send an Astropathic message to Tectum. The Indomitus Crusade has thousands of Primaris Marines at hand. Send the word and ten thousand Primaris Marines will come, armed and ready for a fight."

Persion was relieved to hear it and said, "Good idea, but it will take several weeks for them to get here. In the meantime we can't let the enemy run free, we must seize the initiative."

Yet Zeax pointed out reluctantly, "We're low on ammo."

Persion replied, "I'll contact our ship in orbit and request a resupply drop."

That drew looks of relief but Jediah questioned, "What about the Governor, her troops would be useful."

"If they haven't been turned," Memnos argued, "Her right-hand man was working for the cult."

Vevara countered, "I doubt Aleys Bassail would be part of this. Odrin was working to undermine her from the start, killing her guards and kidnapping her heir. In my experience if the Governor themselves isn't the origin of the Heresy, they're usually the first target of any rebellion. Aleys and her whole household will be marked for death. Probably why she's got her Citadel in lockdown."

"Damnation," Zeax muttered, "We have two tanks and their drivers locked inside, we could have used the firepower."

"Can we get them out?" Gotram asked.

Vevara shook her head, "I can return her heir, I know someone who can smuggle small items in and out. But they'd never open the gates to let tanks out."

"Not even for an Inquisitor?" Persion needled.

Vevara grimaced as she admitted, "An Inquisitorial Rosette opens many doors, but tis a poor shield against a barrage of lasrifles. I'm no good to you dead."

Persion sighed in exasperation as he said, "So be it, we'll bypass her and go straight to the PDF, with their soldiers…"

He was cut off as a distant explosion rang out. Heads snapped about as the echoes rumbled through the warehouse. Persion's genhanced hearing let him discern it had been a sizeable explosion, one that would rip through the city, but it wasn't close by. A heartbeat later another rang out, then another and another and another. Instantly Persion was moving, racing to the warehouse door followed by the rest of the gathering. Outside smoke and flames were rising into the red sky, blocking out the morning light with a shawl of sooty ash and settling upon the vertical column of the Monument to Reunification. Screams and cries of pain filled the air, mixed with panicked cries and alarm as the civilians realised a tragedy was unfolding. The detonations had gone off across the city, tearing through the outer regions and Persion's mental map placed them at key Imperial positions, centres of authority and symbols of Terra's rule. Persion knew the sight would send the people into a mad panic, filling their weak hearts with fear and terror. In minutes these streets would be filled with stampeding hordes of people fleeing in all directions and impeding any efforts to confront whoever had set off those charges.

Gotram pointed at one column of smoke, "That's coming from the Cathedral."

Jediah pointed at another, "That one is the Arbites Precinct."

Yones was looking about in confusion, "What's happening?"

Persion fitted his helm and declared, "We moved too slow, the cult isn't willing to wait for us to get ready. They're seizing the initiative and attacking today."

Vevara wasted not a moment to declare, "I have to move, I need to get to my contacts."

"Go," Persion replied, "The rest of you come with, we'll move to link up with the PDF and get ready to meet whatever's coming. Move your arses; there's a bloody war on!"


	26. Chapter 26

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 26**

Things were moving fast, too fast. Events were spiralling out of control and he was swept along like a leaf on a river. For years he had carefully planned and schemed, building up intricate webs of allies and turncoats. He had arranged assassinations and back-alley murders, blackmails and extortions all in preparation for this day. Yet he had never pictured himself on the front line. Like most politicians he had thought he would be hiding in some bunker, letting others die and only emerging after the dust had settled to claim victory. He hadn't expected to be standing in an alley holding a laspistol.

Odrin was loitering around the base of the Imperial Cathedral, looking up at its soaring bulk with its hideous gargoyles and garish statues of Holy saints. It was an immense edifice, towering above the surrounding buildings, all jagged angles and dark stone. It didn't fit; it was an imposition upon this world and a brutal reminder of Terra's iron rule. Stamping down on this planet like a steel-capped boot. Long had he wanted this bastion of Imperial authority torn down, but now he was faced with the prospect of storming the front door himself he found his ardour lacking.

The First Secretary was keeping to a shadowy alcove, looking out over the bustling crowds lingering outside the door. He was wearing his fatigues but had added a flak jacket and a helmet, ugly things which he resented. He was an organiser and manipulator, his skills leaned towards politics not battle, but here he was leading the attack like some lowly soldier-caste drone. It was all Tyvis' fault, that old harridan had made it clear Odrin would be not be sheltering in safety but would be at the front. Odrin suspected she hoped he died; an irony since he had long wanted the same for her. Many evenings he had idly imagined her death, along with his many other rivals. In his more generous moments he had toyed with letting her live as his minion, keeping her in a subservient role. Then she had revealed her status as the Mother of the Kiith and the Magus of their cult. Even now he could feel her will in his mind, the Broodmind thrumming through him. He wanted to drop his weapon and slink away but he couldn't, the connection generated a searing headache every time he thought of disappearing until the fighting was over.

Odrin grimaced as he remembered his struggle to disobey but it was like trying to not breathe. No matter how he resisted the Broodmind drove him forward. Finally he had resigned himself to playing his part, agreeing to command the first wave of the attack. Still he wasn't going to be stupid about it, if he had to do this then he intended to survive. Which was why he was leading the attack on the Cathedral and not the Arbites' Precinct, he had no intention of going anywhere near that redoubtable fortress. Better to hit a soft target, or so he thought.

Around the base of the Cathedral crowds of devoted souls wandered through the broad doorway seeking spiritual guidance. They came from all walks of life and every caste, their heads turned by off-world notions and ideas. Meanwhile hawkers and shabby merchant-caste traders tried to sell trinkets and tokens to the gullible masses, bartering useless gewgaws for hard coin. Odrin felt insulted, partly because it went against the teachings of this world but mostly because it did not serve the Kiith. These fools should be rioting already, beating down the Dominus' door in outrage for the murder of her heir; instead they were getting in his way. So be it, he thought, if they would not serve his goals they could die with the rest.

From his vantage point he could see his kin hiding in the surrounding neighbourhoods, many Hybrids seeing the red sun for the first time in their lives. They had murdered the inhabitants of the homes and businesses surrounding the Cathedral, creating a staging ground for their forces to muster. They had brought up weapons and explosives from the depths, the result of years of smuggling and today they would be used for the first time. Now they waited only for his word to start the attack.

Odrin glanced at a chrono on his wrist and gulped as he realised he had nearly missed his cue. He hurriedly drew a laspistol and a short sabre from his hip, clumsily trying to fit his grip around the handle. Then he waved for those Hybrids he could see to make ready. He looked at his wrist again and counted down from ten, until finally he said, "Three, two, one…"

Abruptly there was a peal of thunder and as a terrible vibration shook the ground under his feet. High above a blazing fireball ripped out of the front of the Cathedral, blowing chunks of masonry and statutes into the sky. The crowds milling around the entranceway barely had time to look up before solid rock rained down upon them. Those directly under the impacts were killed instantly, crushed by tons of debris. Those further out were perhaps worse off, struck by smaller chunks or flying shrapnel they fell with shattered limbs and bleeding heads, feebly moaning in pain and confusion.

Flames and thick, acrid smoke poured out of the resulting hole in the Cathedral, signs that Odrin's efforts had succeeded. Long ago he had subverted agents within the Cathedral, dupes who hated the Imperials. They didn't need to be Kiith to serve his agenda; they had been willing to do anything to throw off the shackles of Terra. All he had needed to do was send word to them that the hour had come and they had willingly planted explosive devices within the Cathedral. They thought they were freeing Pascum from off-world rule, little realising that Odrin served far darker masters.

Odrin heard screams and cries for help but they were drowned out as distant explosives detonated, each one situated at a key position across the city. The Arbites Precinct, the spaceport, several nexus junctions and the Astropath's tower. The pattern had been designed to spread confusion and alarm, crippling any Imperial ability to respond in a timely fashion, leaving them vulnerable to what came next. From the largest road came a loud rumble, as something large and heavy sprung into life. Odrin saw a large transport looming into view, a machine that rode on four wheels and had a cumbersome bulldozer on the front. It had slab-like sides and a narrow vision slit, intended to withstand falling rock but equally good at stopping bullets and lasblasts. It was a Goliath, a mining vehicle that doubled as an armoured transport and it was being driven by a pair of Kiith Hybrids.

Alarm bells began to ring in the Cathedral, toscins wailing as the Imperials realised they were under attack. Like all Imperial facilities the Cathedral hid a fortress behind its ornate frontage, built to withstand a siege as much as for worship. A doughty blast-shutter began to fall over the wide door, a metre thick slab of Plasteel that would stop any attacker, but it was too slow. The Goliath barrelled into the square outside the door, rolling over people lying injured on the ground as it did so. Blood and bone fountained high as the dozer blade tore through the wounded, leaving a gory trail in its wake as the transport hit the steps leading up to the door and bounced high. The closing barricade fell inexorably, but the Goliath screeched to a halt and the door slammed into it. Tires sagged low as the suspension shattered, but the mass of the machine was too much and the door stuck fast.

"Charge!" Odrin bellowed with a courage he did not feel and from the shadows hunched forms leapt into motion. Twisted Hybrids with too many arms and talons for fingernails stepped into the light of the red sun for the first time and ran for the open door. They clutched lasrifles and autopistols, knives, mining picks and bore-drills, deadly armaments that would tear a man to shreds. They ran with a loping, bestial gait but they made swift progress regardless, bounding over the screaming injured without pause.

Odrin was running before he even knew it, his feet taking him out of cover to join the charge. It wasn't by choice, he had intended to lurk near the back but the compulsion of the Broodmind drove him forward, overriding his sense of self-preservation and making him run alongside his kin. He barely had time to consider what he was doing before his boots hit the steps and he leapt up the stone tiers towards the door. Hybrids were pouring through the door, scrambling around the trapped Goliath and disappearing into the dark interior. Meanwhile another Kiith member was sticking out of the roof of the transport, hands wrapped around a heavy stubber which he was firing into the interior with a hammering retort.

Odrin found himself ducking under the whining barricade and entering the Cathedral's long nave. He had been here before and always thought it garish, decked out in gold with spread-winged eagles and rows of marble columns. Ornate lecterns loomed over the mile-long interior, where preachers had harangued passers-by with talk of the damnation in the hell of the warp awaiting unrepentant sinners. The far end was always obscure, made faint by the distance of the nave but today it was hidden by smoke and ash.

The air was laden with ash from the fires raging through the ancillary chambers while coughing acolytes poured out of their dormitories and chantrys in the upper levels. Pallid-skinned monks and deacons staggered into the nave, wiping streaming eyes and coughing sickly into their hands as they fled the acrid smoke. They were met with gunfire and sharp knives, the Kiith shooting and stabbing them as they emerged. Confused and bewildered priests fled into the supposed safety of the nave, only to be cut down by merciless killers who grinned as they shot them in the face and stabbed them in the guts. The Hybrids vented a lifetime of hatred and frustration upon those who had forced them to hide in the depths, even though they had not known the Kiith existed, and none were spared.

A pool of rich blood soon coated the floor and Odrin grinned as he realised his plan was working. Scores of fat clerics and priests lay still, dead eyes staring into infinity, but not all for a few yet remained. Odrin's heard an angry cry of "Heresy!" and a ray of purest gold light blazed from the smoky end of the Nave. A Hybrid took the blast and burst into flames, her body igniting like a candle as ravening energies destroyed her utterly. From the smoke strode a man in a brown robe decorated with flames and rising eagles. He grasped a blazing staff in one hand, which radiated fiery energies and his eyes bore the light of a true fanatic. It was Archbishop Dunlas, come to defend his holy sanctum.

Odrin ducked back behind a pillar as Dunlas levelled his staff once more and let forth a ray of energy that smote another Hybrid and he roared, "In the name of the God-Emperor, begone foul fiends!" The Hybrids responded instinctively by firing las-shots and auto-pistols at him but they failed to touch his flesh. A corona of brilliant light surrounded Dunlas, refracting the energy and converting it to harmless light as a Rosarius on his breast pulsed redly. Dunlas fired again as he roared, "The fruits of treachery are death!"

Odrin looked longingly at the distant door, thinking of retreating to safety but the Broodmind quashed any such notions, sending a spike of pain into his skull when he thought of abandoning his kin. Like it or not he would have to fight. He risked a glance around his pillar and saw Dunlas incinerating a Hybrid who was trying to shoot him from afar. Seizing the moment of distraction Odrin leapt into a fast run, sprinting to the next towering column while the Archbishop's back was turned. He did not pass unnoticed for a ravening beam of golden energy shot over his shoulder as Dunlas roared, "I see you Heretic, He sees you! None can hide from the God-Emperor's vengeance!"

Odrin felt his skin crawling as the near-miss almost killed him but he reached safety and threw himself into the pillar's shadow. He knew it was scant cover, the Archbishop would round the pillar in a heartbeat but at that moment a half-dozen Hybrids tried to rush him, hoping the aura of protection would not work against melee attacks. Odrin glanced out from behind cover and saw Dunlas meet the first with a wide sweep of his staff. The end flared like a star as it made contact and the Hybrid fell away, his entire front seared black by radiant power.

Another tried to stab him with a bayonet but was given the same treatment, then one swung a whirring mining drill at the Archbishop, only to be blasted away in a charred heap. Dunlas for all his zealous preaching was no sop, he was a fierce combatant, strong as a hardened soldier and boasting the speed of one who drilled every day. Odrin realised that the Priest had been training hard, putting all his zealotry into preparing for the day when war came.

Dunlas relentlessly took attackers apart, but at the last he was caught between two Hybrids and forced to fling himself back, lest he be outflanked and cut down. Instantly Odrin moved, diving out of cover and stepping up to Dunlas' exposed back. The Archbishop sensed someone behind him and tried to swing about but Odrin was too close and with one thrust stabbed his sabre into the priest's back. Dunlas froze and his staff fell from his fingers, he gasped weakly and his lips uttered, "Emperor forgive me, I have failed you…"

Odrin felt the Archbishop's weight fall upon him, the body twisting as it toppled to wrest the sabre out of his grip. Odrin let it go, not wanting to keep it anyway. He should have felt elation at killing the Archbishop, a man he had dreamt of ending so many times, but all he felt was numb, like he had watched someone else acting out his deeds through a pict-viewer. Around him Hybrids surged forward once more, desecrating the Cathedral and rooting out survivors. Odrin could feel the Broodmind urging them forward, but in a quiet corner of his soul he resolved to find a way to keep it at bay. He had to find a way to impose a modicum of control over the situation or this uprising was going to get him killed.


	27. Chapter 27

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 27**

"Get out of the way!" Persion roared at the panicking crowd. Civilians were everywhere, packing the streets as they ran in all directions. The thronging people were filled with fear and dread mixed with the mindless frenzy of a herd of startled grox. They filled the streets and boulevards, pouring out of their homes and workplaces in a desperate attempt to flee destruction.

The reason for their flight was obvious. All across Pasdem city explosions rang, flames illuminating the towering columns of smoke that covered the red sun. The daylight was fading into a twilight haze, lit by raging fires while screams carried over the buildings, a vision of hell made real. Far away the sound of gunfire rang, signs that the Genestealer cult was attacking. Persion could hear the guns and count their numbers with exact precision, but he couldn't get near them. The Space Marines were bogged down, trying to force a path through the teary civilians, not an easy task without killing them.

Persion shoved aside a desperate man whose arms were packed with loaves of bread. He fell down and scattered his wares to the ground, only to be instantly set upon by hordes of people, fighting over scraps of food. Why they would worry about starvation when there was a more pressing danger at hand baffled Persion but he paid it no mind as he forced a step forward. Everywhere he looked people were looting and stealing, breaking shop windows and jumping inside to grab whatever they could take. Men ran with bundles of clothes and stolen coins, useless gewgaws that would not help were they caught by stray gunfire. An old woman was beset by a gang of youths, threatening her with knives for her tiny purse. They were cruelly surprised when she pulled out a pistol and shot two of them down. The rest ran for their lives, not having expected their prey to fight back.

Persion had never seen a riot like it, the mass panic and the way social order collapsed at the first hint of calamity. It was every man for himself and the people were doing far more damage to themselves than the Genestealers ever could. The city was tearing itself apart before his eyes and there was nothing the Space Marine could do to stop it, he was forged for war, not crowd control. The teeming scrum was stopping the thirty Astartes getting where they needed to be and forcing them to step aside was chewing away at the scant time they had left.

A wild-eyed woman forced herself into Persion's path and held up a wailing baby as she cried, "Take my child with you!"

Persion tried to force her aside without snapping her bones as he growled, "We're not here for that!"

"Save my baby!" the woman bawled.

"Get out of my way you shrew!" Persion snapped, "We march to battle not to safety."

The woman didn't seem to be listening, her reason lost in terror and dread. She was going to hurt herself, or someone else and Persion had no idea how to get her to relent. He didn't know how to make any of these mad mortals stop harassing the Space Marines. Thankfully another intervened, Jediah, who lifted his pistol over the head of the crowd and fired a single shot. The bang of the bolt pistol cut through the wails of the crowd, the deadly noise drawing all eyes and shutting mouths in stunned disbelief. Jediah lowered his aim and his Reivers followed suit, levelling pistols into the crowd as he roared into the sudden silence, "The next shot won't miss, who wants to die first?!"

The people instantly fled, their frail courage breaking at the prospect of facing Astartes. They turned their backs and ran, clearing the street in moments. The woman with the child snatched the babe to her breast and sprinted away, disappearing into a dark alleyway. The Astartes' path suddenly became clear and Persion breathed in relief, "Nicely done."

"You were taking too long," Jediah grumbled.

Persion rolled his eyes under his helm and said, "Still, it was a convincing bluff."

"Bluff?" Jediah sneered, "I never bluff."

Persion let the matter drop as they advanced, moving at a fast jog now the crowds were scattered. Ahead the noise of battle grew more pronounced, showing that somebody was fighting back. Persion was eager to engage but knew the Astartes' supplies were growing scant, their battles in the depths having drained their ammunition severely. Persion hurriedly activated his enhanced vox-pack and sent a signal to orbit, "Lieutenant Persion to Eternal Fidelity, come in."

The vox crackled as a mortal replied, "… hear you. Shipmaster Jant here, this better be quick."

Persion was perplexed by the response and questioned, "What's going on up there?"

Jant replied, "A full-scale insurrection has erupted in every major orbital facility. The crews have risen up against their officers and tried to seize control of the orbital defence grid. Several stations have already fallen and they have turned their guns on the other facilities and us. Fighting rages everywhere and civilian shipping is running for deep space."

Persion grimaced as he realised the calamity had spread to orbit. Whether these rebels were tainted Hybrids or witless dupes mattered not, for the cult had laid their plans well. Persion barked, "Can you help stop the uprising?"

Jant replied, "We shot down a few boarding pods launched from captured stations but then the rebels focused on us. We are being targeted by three gun-platforms. We'll fight to the last but we're not a strike cruiser, we won't withstand another barrage."

"Negative," Persion snapped, "Your orders are to send us a munitions drop via Thunderhawk, then break for deep space and stay out of gunnery range."

"Master, we can't leave you," Jant protested.

"I don't need you Dead, I need you to sound the alert," Persion commanded, "Get out of here and send an Astropathic warning to the Chapter. Tell them Genestealers have subverted Pascum."

Silence stretched out for long seconds then Jant stated, "Orders received and understood. Emperor be with you master."

Persion let the link die without reply for they were approaching a junction of two major roadways, where a battle raged. Around the periphery of the nexus tainted Hybrids lurked, using ground-cabs and cargo-8's for cover. They laid down fire with lasrifles, autopistols and stubbers, creating a crossfire across the road. Trapped in the middle of that circle were a knot of men in heavy carapace gear. They were huddled around an overturned Rhino, which looked to have been thrown upside down by an explosion. The men carried hefty riot shields and black-visored helms and returned fire with shotgun blasts. The Imperial Aquila was prominent on all of them, for they were Adeptus Arbites, the Emperor's law-keepers and enforcers.

Zeax looked upon the fight and announced, "The filthy Xenos close in all around us."

"Let us greet them with fire," Yones declared as he readied his bolt rifle.

"What are our orders?" Memnos asked as he hefted a flamer.

Persion saw the law-men were outnumbered and outgunned and would not last much longer. Yet his lips drew back in eagerness. At last a straight-up battle, no more intrigue or diplomacy. A fight he could understand. The Lieutenant drew in a breath and ordered, "Let the purgation begin. Codex pattern gamma-seven. Zeax set up here, Yones go left and sweep the flank. Jediah take your Reivers right and leave none alive."

Instantly the squads broke into their formations, assaulting the Hybrids with a precision only Space Marines could achieve. Yones' Intercessors advanced around burning ground-cabs in staggered pairs, each Marine laying down covering fire for his Brother to advance then exchanging roles. In moments they had pushed deep into the right flank, mowing down Hybrids with precisions shots. Return fire pattered off their armour but the Primaris advanced with complete confidence in their blessed armour, blasting any Hybrid who dared show his face with their long Mark II rifles.

On the left the Reivers threw themselves at the foe, favouring a vicious close-quarters battle. They struck with knives and bolt-pistols, tearing the enemy apart in a bloody melee. The Hybrids tried to bring their firepower to bear but the Reivers were in amongst them and their knives were sharp, killing and dismembering with a speed and ferocity the tainted curs could not match. Jediah was at their head and somehow he had attached a circular fan-blade to his wrist, using its razor-sharp edge as much as his short-sword to tear out throats and disembowel foes. Persion thought he was enjoying himself.

In moments the battle had turned, the Hybrids falling back before the counter-assault, but then the Devastators finished setting up and opened fire. The air erupted with peals of thunder as four Heavy Bolters blazed, laying down fusillades of firepower. They were aided by their Brothers with regular bolters, picking off those the Fire Support troopers missed. Scores of hybrids were decimated by the onslaught, blown apart by scything bolt-rounds and falling like wheat before a threshing machine.

Persion was elated by the sight, knowing the battle was moments from being won, but the enemy was not finished yet. From the far side of the junction came a mechanical roar as a heavy machine rolled into view. A slab-sided mining machine that hurtled forward on fat tyres. A Goliath transporter, one with a tainted Hybrid sticking out of the roof, swinging a heavy stubber about as bolt rounds glanced off its reinforced front.

"Ware!" Persion shouted as it barrelled towards them, "Take it down!"

Memnos was by his side and shouted, "We don't have any anti-armour weapons!"

Persion saw it was true, the Goliath was about to slam into them and crush the Devastators. But at the last moment Sergeant Zeax bellowed, "Shoot the tires!"

The heavy weapons Brothers complied, dropping their aim to target the spinning wheels. No human could have aimed a juddering Heavy bolter with such precision but the Space Marines were not human. Their strength was incredible and their aim unearthly. Screeching bolt-rounds smashed into the front tires and blew them out, causing the Goliath to slam nose-first into the road, crashing to a halt in a spray of Ferroccrete chips.

Persion saw side doors opening and gripped his Friction Axe tightly as he leapt to intercept disembarking foes but he was surprised by what emerged. Barely human figures with twisted claws and gnashing fangs jumped out of the interior, lashing out with three or four arms. They were far more inhuman than the Hybrids he had already seen, their blood mixed with some other inhuman traits and their speed took him by surprise.

The first one through the door slammed into his chest, nearly bowling him over with its mass. Sharp fangs screeched over his eyepieces as it tried to bite his face off and lashing claws tore at his sides. Persion staggered under the weight of it but then his anger surged. He would not be bested by such filth. He grabbed the creature by the back of the neck and heaved it off, holding it at arm's length as it screeched with feral rage. He had not believed such an abomination could be born on an Imperial world but the twisted genes of the alien had soured the purity of mankind, creating a hideous mockery of the blessed human form.

His Friction Axe blazed as he tore the heart out of it, cauterising flesh with the burning edge. Persion dropped the body but was instantly beset by two more, these ones covered in purple scales. Persion didn't know what vile corruption had wrought such travesties but he deflected a taloned hand with his augmetic arm, the backswing of his axe tearing its throat out. The Hybrid collapsed fountaining blood but Persion was left exposed as the other leapt up and stabbed deep into his flank. Ceramite cracked under the blow, parting before the razor-claws and Persion hissed as he felt the talons dig deep into his side. He lashed out with his left arm but the Hybrid ducked with inhuman speed, then it doubled its insult by stabbing him in the lower back. Persion roared with anger, lurching about in an effort to get at his attacker but it clung to him like a burr, hanging at just the angle where he couldn't get at it.

Persion swung wide as he bellowed, "Get off!" The Hybrid merely hissed bestially, its talons digging deep into his flesh, but its triumph was short-lived. A glowing mace came out of nowhere and smote its head, the blow coming from behind where it wasn't looking. The Hybrid went limp as its brains sprayed over Persion's armour and it fell away, claws pulling free with a wet slurp.

Persion winced under his helm as he felt the claws slip free but he turned about saying, "My thanks Zeax…"

He stopped for it wasn't Zeax, instead a grim-faced man in a black helmet stood panting with exhaustion, his mace dripping with viscera. He wore a heavy overcoat over his armour, marked with badges of rank and he lifted his mace in salute as he announced, "I am Marshall Gunnah. May the God-Emperor smile upon you for this righteous victory."

Persion glanced at the Goliath but saw Zeax and Memnos finishing it off, the Apothecary pouring fire into the interior. The rest of the battle died down as the last Hybrids fell and Persion realised they had won. He faced the Marshall and said, "Lieutenant Persion, Storm Heralds."

"Yes," Gunnah replied curtly, "I know who you are."

Persion felt his wounds closing with itching heat as his gene-implants went to work and he said, "Marshal we have no time for niceties, we face a Genestealer infestation."

"Karyl's hairy arse!" Gunnah swore, "It's worse than I thought. I was on the way back to the Precinct from the law-courts when my convoy was attacked. I thought it was a mutant rebellion, but Genestealers… that's a clusterfrak and a half."

Persion nodded as he said, "We must stand united. Where are the rest of your forces?"

"You're looking at all I could pull together," Gunnah growled, "No more than a score of Arbites. My Precinct has fallen, betrayed from within. Damn Genestealers must have had agents in my order's support personnel. I have riot squads across the city but they're all besieged, I can't summon anyone else."

Persion grimaced at the bad news but he declared, "We will link up with more as we go. We're heading towards the PDF headquarters. If we can unite with them then we can turn the tide of battle."

Gunnah drew in a breath as he said, "I pray to the Golden Throne you're right. I there was at the fall of Veltri, I know what Genestealers can do. We're going to need every Emperor-loyal man to stand with us."

"Then let us waste no more time chatting," Persion affirmed, "Form up Brothers, this war isn't over so long as one of us yet draws breath!"


	28. Chapter 28

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 28**

The battle raged across the city, filling the air with the clamour of war. Gunshots echoed from all directions and explosions bloomed as the carnage spread. Screams and desperate cries were drowned out by roars of anger and the deep rumble of buildings collapsing in on themselves and piles of dead grew ever higher.

The Kiith were everywhere, gunning down fleeing civilians and falling upon the survivors with rabid frenzy. Their first attack had taken or crippled a score of key facilities, claiming dominance over the city. Yet they weren't having it all their own way. Isolated and scattered pockets of resistance were fighting back. Trapped soldiers of the PDF and the Arbites engaged any foe they could see, even the local constables fought back though their resistance was brief. They had little idea what they were fighting but they recognised the twisted hybrids as being other and so they attacked on sight.

Through empty warehouses lasfire was traded between desperate knots of men. Heavy weapon teams dug in at burnt-out windows and blazed away at anything that crossed their sights, friend or foe. In the suburbs detonations ripped buildings apart as Earthshaker batteries lobbed ordnance into their own sides' homes. Many civilians died as the artillery rained down, but the PDF had reports of enemies in the zone and hurriedly vectored in heavy firepower, uncaring about collateral damage. Only those who reached the city limits and fled into the countryside enjoyed a hint of safety, the rest were left to burn.

In the whole city only the Jade Citadel stood inviolate, it's mighty walls and gates proof against the bedlam sweeping the streets. Its high ramparts shimmered under the light of a void shield, protecting those within from harm. Many civilians ran to its Adamantium gates seeking shelter but no help came from that direction. The gates remained shut and none were allowed to venture forth to offer aid, the Governor refusing to lend any help to her stricken people.

Odrin heard the clamour and it made his teeth grit. The battle should have been swift and certain, had he been allowed to orchestrate it then it would have been. Instead the city was being torn apart in an orgy of violence, the resistance blindly fighting back wherever they could. The Broodmind was displeased. He could feel it inside his head, feel the pulsing urges to fling himself into the fight and slay any who opposed the Kiith. Yet he fought back against that compulsion. He was no drone; he had intelligence and cunning beyond his average kin. He was part of the Broodmind and it was part of him, but not all he was. He was bred to lead, not follow, and that required independence of thinking. Tyvis sought to humiliate him by making him a lowly minion but he refused to give her the satisfaction. He was going to fight this battle his way, and by winning he would earn the respect of the Grandfather. Then he would deal with Tyvis.

He glanced to his side, where a Hybrid was peering out a window through the sight of a sniper's Long-las. The weapon was a superior make to an ordinary lasrifle, as its' wielder was above his kin. Three arms for improved stability, enlarged eyes for enhanced vision and specialised lungs to minimise breathing motions. He was the perfect blend of human, genestealer and animals traits, specially honed by the Kiith to be the perfect sniper.

Odrin has been waiting for his kin to take the shot but his patience grew thin as he snapped, "Hurry up!"

"Silence," the Hybrid growled without looking around.

As another Earthshaker barrage levelled a distant part of the city Odrin risked a glance over the lintel. He was in the ground floor of an empty building, looking out over a wide section of clear ground surrounding a squat bunker. It was a typical Imperial STC design, all grey ferrocrete and narrow visions slits. Yet he knew it was more, the bevvy of comms-arrays protruding from its low roof attested to the fact it was the secondary command centre of the PDF. From here the sporadic resistance would be coordinated, the scattered troopers and pounding artillery directed from within. It was also a place their generals would flee to should their headquarters be compromised. Which it was, Odrin had seen to that.

The builders had taken no chances, no homes or businesses were allowed within rifle range of the bunker. It sat inviolate in its clear ground, confident that nothing short of heavy weapons could touch it. Thus the Hybrids were well back, far beyond the range of a normal human sniper, but the Kiith were not normal. His companion gently squeezed his trigger, sending a blazing shot through a vision slit of the distant bunker. Odrin didn't know if he had hit the heavy weapon gunner within but instantly cried, "Now!"

From surrounding buildings a dozen lascannon blasts erupted. each one from a dedicated Kiith gun-crew. Crossing the distance in an instant they slammed into the bunker and shattered the nearest wall, blowing a wide hole into the surface. Dust and grit fountained high as the wall was broken open, leaving a gaping aperture leading within. Instantly assault teams leapt into the open, sprinting for the hole with pumping arms and loping gaits. Bulky Hybrids bred for strength and ferocity ran alongside Purestrains, the deadliest of all.

Their path took them under the firearc of a defensive pillbox protrusion but it seemed the sniper had scored his target, for barely a trickle of lasfire responded. The defenders would be scrambling to get another gunner on the Heavy bolter but they had not enough time and a feeble volley coming out of the vision slits was all they managed. Odrin felt the Broodmind hammering, demanding he get up and run, but he gritted his teeth and stayed where he was. He could serve better with his intelligence not brute strength. He gripped the lintel and yelled, "Take some alive! I need prisoners!"

The assault teams poured within the bunker and a furious firefight erupted. The sounds of battle ringing forth as blood was spilt and lives ended. Odrin kept his head down for long minutes, waiting for his strategy to bear fruit and keeping the Broodmind at bay with thoughts of the larger victory he would bring. Eventually the din of battle died down and Odrin rose from cover. The Broodmind no longer pulsed in his mind, a sign that it was satisfied with the victory, for the moment. For a brief time Odrin had agency over his actions, a brief respite for him to act freely. He intended to make the most of it; he had no intention of being flung into bloody charge after bloody charge. If he had to fight this war he intended to find a way to win it his way.

From the ruins of the bunker his Hybrid kin emerged, followed by their Purestrain cousins. Their rifles were hot from discharge and their claws wet with blood. They were flushed with victory and walked with a cocky grin but that did not interest Odrin. What caught his eye was the line of prisoners trooping out, hands firmly upon their heads and eyes downcast in defeat. Odrin noted gold braiding and marks of rank upon them and spied an opportunity. Instantly he was moving, putting himself in their path. The Hybrids forced the prisoners to stop and kneel in the road as Odrin loomed over them. He counted logisticians, adjutants and Generals of the PDF, all highly valuable captives, but then his eyes settled on one individual in swathes of gold braiding and he crowed, "What's this? Clemas Bassail?"

The supreme commander of Pascum's standing army looked up with anger and snarled, "Odrin… I should have known you would throw in with scum like this."

Odrin grinned broadly at the man and replied, "You don't seem happy to see me. I am a little bit hurt."

"Not so much as you will be when I get my hands on you," Clemas spat.

Odrin snorted in amusement at the empty threat and remarked, "Such hostility, for no good reason. Have we not been colleagues and compatriots for years?"

Clemas snarled, "I should have put a lasbolt into your smug face the day I met you. I don't know how you bred this army of mutants but it will avail you not. Your treachery will be punished!"

Odrin sighed theatrically, "You waste your energies upon the wrong target. It is the Imperium that you should be raging against. They have crushed Pascum under their tyrannical boot heel, polluting our genic purity with their base ideas and stealing our youngest blood for their endless wars."

Clemas sneered, "You dare speak to me of Genic Purity?! You spit upon our way of life with your twisted abominations. My family has been loyal to the Golden Throne of Terra for millennia but you are trash, nothing but a jumped-up clerk who was let out of his cubicle. Oh yes I see the truth, you crave power for yourself. You don't care about Pascum, this is all about your ego. You're not doing this for our world, this is all about you!"

Odrin shook his head and replied, "How little you understand. Yet I was hoping you would see sense and join with us."

"Join you?!" Clemas sneered, "I am ruler-caste, defiance is bred into me. I would rather die before serving you!"

Odrin merely grinned in response as he chortled, "So stubborn, but I know a way to change your mind."

At a gesture from him the Hybrids stepped back and the Purestrains moved nearer. They loomed over the kneeling line of prisoners, standing behind them with their jaws yawning wide. The line of men sweated and moaned as they glanced backwards at the black claws and dripping fangs. They thought Odrin planned to kill them but that was not what he wanted. With a nod he signalled the Purestrains and they jerked forward, tongues stabbing out to impale each man in the back of the neck. Bulging sacs under their tongues pulsated as their ovipositors squeezed a cocktail of venoms and hormones into their victims, paralysing and debilitating like a stun dart. While the victim jerked helplessly each Genestealer implanted a tiny nodule within their bodies, a small sac of viral spores and mutagens. This was known as the Genestealer's Kiss.

The Purestrains stepped back as the men collapsed to the ground, heads swimming from the alien cocktail coursing through their bodies. They lay prone, feebly twitching and drooling as an insidious process began its work. Odrin smiled triumphantly for this was an essential part of the Kiith's reproduction. Even now the victim's genes were being rewritten, a subtle shift in their genic code that would make them carriers for the Genestealer's spawn. The offspring of those who experienced the Kiss would be born Hybrids, first-generation spawn who would join the Kiith as bosom comrades.

There was more, in order to make sure the host did not reject the offspring their minds were clouded and made to see a beautiful specimen, rather than the twisted aberration they truly were. The hosts would kill to protect their spawn; willingly serving the Broodmind without ever realising their loyalty had been subverted. It was a commonality of purpose and intent, aligning their natural impulses and drives to the service of the Broodmind. Henceforth their instinct would be to obey the Kiith, to believe whatever they were told without question and submit to the more senior members of their new family.

Odrin waved two Hybrids forward to pick up Clemas and the commander hung between them like a drunk. Odrin lifted his chin with a hand and said softly, "Clemas, you understand now, don't you?"

Clemas only slurred, "I…. waaaaaas? You…."

Odrin frowned as he pressed his point, "The Kiith are your friends."

"Friends," Clemas murmured, "Yes… we are friends."

"The Imperials are the enemy," Odrin stated, "They started this riot."

"Enemy… Imperials are the enemy," Clemas repeated hazily his eyes vague and unfocused.

"You are going to order your troops to attack the Imperials," Odrin stated.

Clemas hesitated for a moment but was helpless to resist as he repeated more firmly, "Yes, we shall fight the Imperials."

Odrin smiled broadly and waved a Hybrid nearer, one with a captured vox-set. He took the horn and held it up to Clemas' lips as he commanded, "You shall give the order: Pascum declares its independence from Terra. All PDF soldiers are to shoot the Space Marines on sight."

Clemas brow furrowed as some tiny part of him resisted but the Broodmind owned him, its tendrils caressing his mind and his lips moved according to its will, "All PDF units, this is General Clemas Bassail. The Imperium has betrayed Pascum; the Golden Throne has betrayed us. You are ordered to engage the Space Marines on sight, I repeat, kill the Imperials."

With that Odrin straightened up and grinned, the fate of the Imperial force on Pascum was sealed. They would soon find themselves inundated with enemies and overwhelmed. Surrounded and outnumbered thousands to one, even Space Marines couldn't fend off those odds. Odrin was satisfied that the tide of battle would soon turn against the Imperial scum yet his joy was short-lived, already the Broodmind was pulsing in his head, demanding he charge off to the next fight. He gritted his teeth as he fought the impulse, stopping himself running at the nearest foe. In his heart he resolved to find a way to retain control of himself and when this was all over he'd find some way to dispose of Tyvis and claim her place in the Kiith.


	29. Chapter 29

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 29**

The sound of fighting rang in the slums, explosions and screams echoing down the narrow alleys and dank alcoves. It sounded in the ears of pickpockets and thieves, it smothered whore's entreaties and drowned out the secretive muttering of burly men with scarred knuckles. None could hear and not know that war had come. Yet here there was no panic, perhaps the only place in the city that could say such a thing. The reviled and downtrodden criminal-caste had long been accustomed to the worst, it was a daily occurrence for them. So instead of fleeing they merely gathered together and pulled out a surprising amount of small arms.

In a dilapidated hovel, Manaar watched a meeting between the Righteous Man and Inquisitor Vevara. The retinue had made a swift exit after leaving the undercity, abandoning the Space Marines as they sought more important objectives. Manaar knew this criminal had many contacts and secret ways, means the Inquisitor could use.

"Is it done?" Vevara asked.

"The whelp was smuggled into the Jade Citadel without comment," Fysk replied with a smug tone.

"Impressive," Lumix remarked, "The Fortress is on lockdown."

Fysk smiled coldly as he boasted, "Not to me, I see many things the snobs try to hide."

Vevara didn't feed his ego but stated, "That part of the mission is complete, next I need your guns."

"Hold on," Fysk protested, "I never signed up to fight your war."

"You have no choice," Manaar countered, "War is coming, whether you will it or not."

Fysk crossed his arms as he said, "We can handle whatever comes our way. This is our patch and we will defend it."

Vevara shook her head and argued, "Not against what's coming. There is far more at play than you know. The taint of the alien lies upon Pascum, this is a Xenos infestation."

Fysk didn't sound impressed as he retorted, "This slum may be a squalid hole, but it's our squalid hole. Anybody who sticks their noses in uninvited will be shot, alien or otherwise."

Manaar sighed at his foolish intransigence but Eirk lifted a finger and said, "Hear that? Earthshaker batteries at work. Their ordnance will rip this neighbourhood apart like cardboard. When they turn the big guns on this place you won't even see the men who kill you. They can level this district from miles away."

Fysk looked doubtful but he asked, "And how is it better to go haring off with you?"

Vevara stated, "It's the best chance you have. Amassing our forces may be the only chance we have to turn this around."

"Statically speaking she is correct," Lumix asserted, "The probability of survival on your own is less than one point seven three percent."

Fysk grimaced as he hissed, "To think we have to fight alongside snobs like the Genic Council."

"No," Manaar corrected, "This Genic council is the root of the infestation. Their domes have been burned to the ground."

Fsyk's face broke out into a grin as he crowed, "You should have opened with that. Saw the fires but didn't know what started them. So, that old fishwife Tyvis is disgraced… that means there's a power vacuum. Looks like it time for a new man to rise. You've convinced me, I'll gather my best lads and bring out what guns we have."

Manaar was disappointed by the man's base greed, his first thought being to grab more power for himself, yet they needed him. The Inquisitor's retinue could not fight off the spawn of the Great Devourer alone. Manaar also had to find his prey, he was starting to doubt he would ever get within arm's reach of his objective ever again. Like it or not he needed Fysk and not just for his guns. Manaar sidled up to Fysk and leaned in to ask, "Did you recover my item?"

Fysk frowned as he replied, "Your fancy box? Yes, I got it out."

"And my other requests?" Manaar inquired.

Fysk nodded as he said, "It's all waiting for you upstairs."

Manaar turned to the Inquisitor and declared, "I must prepare."

Vevara shrugged, "Do what you must but be quick; we shall have to move soon."

Manaar needed no more prompting to depart. He climbed a rickety staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He was eager, his heart pumping in his chest in anticipation. Behind sealed doors in his mind emotions were stirring, dark and violent impulses growing more intense as the knowledge that soon they would be freed filled him. Soon he would shed his hesitant and doubting identity and would adopt a more violent persona.

He reached the top of the stairs and opened a drab door to find a bare room, bereft of furniture or adornments. The wooden floor was unvarnished and a small window let in a beam of red light. There were two items of import in the room, the first being his chest, smuggled out of the Jade Citadel and brought to this location. The other was a small Mon-Keigh boy, shaven-headed and nervous. He was gripping a small white bird in his hands, its head jerking about as it looked for danger.

Manaar stepped within and closed the door as he said, "Stand still and say nothing." The boy nodded but he had already turned to the chest and began running his hands over the top as he brushed it with his mind. The psychoreactive wraithbone responded to his mental impulses and slid back, revealing the contents. Inside was a suit of red armour, laden with wraithbone conduits, armaments and the bulky form of a Warp-jump pack. It was his Aspect armour and the time had come to don it. Koshano had told him he would know when the moment was right and Manaar knew this was that moment; the certainty filled him head to toe.

Manaar did not simply grab his armour; there were rituals and sacred practices to be observed first. He reached within and collected a paint pot and a coarse brush, a selection of body-inks, a small knife and four fat candles. He laid these out in the proscribed fashion then took up the brush and dipped it in red paint. The first thing he did was draw a wide circle upon the floor, perfect in form and unmarred by a shaking hand. This was important; Manaar had to be committed to the moment, if he accepted imperfection in even the smallest detail then the entire ritual would fail.

The circle complete Manaar knelt at the cardinal points and drew runes of the dead gods. To the north he drew the rune of Asuryan, to honour the supremacy of the Eldar race and he intoned in his races' ancient tongue, "With this mark, I pledge that the Eldar shall never fall." To the south he drew the rune of Kurnous, to invoke the spirit of the hunt and he recited, "With this mark, I vow to never relent while my quarry yet abides." To the west he drew the rune of Isha, to pay respects to the living and he pronounced, "With this mark, I swear to fight for the generations yet to be born." Finally to the east he drew the rune of Morai-heg, to venerate the lost and he declared, "With this mark, I make my oath to kill for the generations departed."

Manaar stepped back from the circle and felt the locks in his psyche turning, releasing wisps of the darkness in his spirit, but he was not done yet. Manaar set a fat candle by each rune and lit them, filling the room with scented smoke. Then he reached within the chest and drew forth his armour. A red bodysuit, perfectly contoured to his form. Then ablative plates of carapace armour and his vambraces, from which protruded a pair of phase-blades. He laid these out around the circle with mathematical precision. Then he took up a bulkier item: an armature bearing a pair of death spinners, along with a neural-interface so he could control it like his own arms. This was followed by the bulk of his warp-jump pack and finally his helmet. His hands tingled as he held it, knowing it to be far more than a helm, it was his war-mask and when he donned it his soul would be complete.

Yearning to complete the ritual Manaar hurriedly stripped off his attire, leaving him naked in the room. He collected the body-inks and stepped into the circle and knelt with his eyes closed. He breathed deeply of the smoky incense and felt his soul gripped by wicked emotions, the urge to kill and slay seeping from behind his mental barriers. He was no longer the Manaar who had entered the room; he was a more purposeful and determined being, shorn of doubt and hesitation.

Manaar waved the boy closer and took up his knife. The child stood outside the circle and held out the bird. Manaar reached up with his knife and cut away a handful of feathers. The bird squawked and flapped at the slight pain but Manaar gripped the feathers like a brush and dipped them into the inks. He used the feathers to begin painting icons of battle onto himself, a record of the wars he had fought in and a perfect record of the lives he had taken. Stroke by stroke his life was laid out upon his skin. As he did this he began to sing an ancient lament of his people. He sang of loss and woe, of the fall of worlds and the forgetting of wonders. He sang of the destruction of the Eldar empire and the birth of their eternal enemy. He sang of his people's pain and anguish, feeling the torment grip his soul as he experienced the despair of an entire species. Yet in the darkness there was hope, for he sang of the coming of Asurmen and the first Aspect Warriors, the creation of the Pheonix Lords and the salvation found in the Paths.

Manaar's soul was aflame, torn by grief but buoyed up by hope. His mental doors were opening, filling him with the most extreme sensations he was capable of experiencing. This was why Aspect Warriors were treated with caution, for he was no longer hiding his emotions and obsessions, he was embracing them. Manaar at this moment was as dangerous and unbalanced as the ancient Eldar had been before their fall. All that remained was to channel this feeling into purposeful action.

Manaar reached out and took up his bodysuit, drawing it over his limbs with sure and certain movements. Then he fitted the outer plates, each piece slotting home with steady clicks. He tested his phase-blades with squeezes of his hands, the deadly implements sliding from his wrists over the backs of his hands like a feline exposing its claws. The armature was a more difficult prospect but he fitted it with practised hands, the deathspinners hanging from his torso like he had four arms. He swung these about with neural impulses, wraithbone filaments responding to his thoughts like they were a part of him. Finally he shrugged the warp-jump pack over his shoulders, its weight settling over his back as the connections drew together and bonded to him.

One thing remained, his helm, and he took this up with one hand. He gazed into the eyesockets and knew he was committing himself to a perilous course of action, setting his feet on a road filled with danger and temptation. One slip and he would die or worse this feeling could consume him, trapping him forever in this Path. The risk of becoming an Exarch was a danger every Aspect Warrior danced with daily, for there was no more extreme an experience than battle. Yet Manaar did not quail, his heart beat with eagerness for the violence he would unleash, relishing the thought of the bloodshed to come. But first he must seal the deed by taking an innocent life.

Manaar's arm flashed and the tip of his phase-blade found the Mon-Keigh child's throat, tearing jugular veins open. The child didn't even have time to scream as he collapsed, gore fountaining high and painting the circle with rich warm blood. The Manaar who entered the room would have been shamed by the deed, torn with doubt and self-recrimination but the Warp Spider had risen to dominance and he revelled in the murder rush.

This was the secret of Furta-Rith, hidden from all others, even the Phoenix Lords. The Craftworld was dedicated to the preservation of the ancient civilisation of the Eldar as it was before the Fall. The pinnacles of art and culture and philosophy had been taken from their homeworlds before they burned but so too had they brought a darkness with them. A cruelty and sadism that festered in their hearts. Such a corruption could not be allowed free reign, lest they become as the Dark Kin of Commorragh, but it must be honoured in some fashion nonetheless. On the Craftworld pens of lesser races were maintained in secret by the Aspect Warriors, stored like the cattle they were, for the benefit of a higher species. Every time an Aspect Warrior of Furta-Rith donned his armour he or she did so with an act of murder. This was why those who left the Path of the Warrior would never speak of their experiences, a shameful memory they sought to bury behind the rigid disciplines of new Paths.

Manaar reached out and dipped a clean feather into the spreading blood and then with hot vitae he drew the Rune of Kaela Mensha Khaine onto his face, the Bloody Handed God of War, and declared, "With this mark I vow I shall make a masterpiece of war. My blades are my brush and my enemy's bodies shall be my canvas. The suffering of my foes shall be my opus and their tears the crescendo in my art of murder."

The ritual complete Manaar fitted his helmet and the being that looked out from within was not the same. He was a violent and driven killer, taking pleasure in the destruction of his foes and the deaths of the enemy. All his former aspects were buried in a tide of vicious emotions, his commitment to the Path of the Warrior total and complete. Manaar the artist and pilot was gone, only the Warp Spider remained.

The Warp Spider knew why he was here, the memories of his weak and hesitant self were available but they lacked vigour and texture. Like the difference between reading of a storm and actually being caught in one, feeling the wind and the rain on one's face. The Warp Spider persona picked out situational details, names of enemy's and allies, like a meteorologist studying cloud formations. The other Manaar had not known how to reach his target and destroy it but the Warp Spider knew it was fated. He would draw out his prey and kill it, he owned no doubt that he would complete his mission. The way was clear and certain; he was the predator in the moment of the pounce.

Filled with steady confidence the new Manaar stood up and stepped over the cooling body of his victim without a glance backwards as he stalked to the door. His prey awaited and he would see it dead, no matter the cost.


	30. Chapter 30

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 30**

The headquarters of the PDF was on fire. Persion could see smoke billowing from its narrow windows and the piles of dead laying before the doors. The thick walls were scorched by flames and the ramparts above broken and crumbling, while the proud Aquila fixed to the front was missing half a wing and one head. Like all military structures the ten-story building had been designed as much as a fortress as an administrative building but it had not availed the defenders. Internal explosions had ripped through the place, demolishing the gun ports and crippling the void shield generators. The reinforced doors had been blown off, leaving the way exposed for a Genestealer assault. Their bodies laying where they had fallen, mixed with those of the defenders.

Persion's attention was dragged back to the ground as a shivering youth stammered, "The Generals have left already, I am charged with securing this location." This was Mortima, a native commander, one who had been assigned to oversee the clearing of the headquarters. The man didn't look old enough to lead soldiers and if he had ever seen real combat then Persion was an Ork. Sadly he wore a Captain's rank pins on his collar and so was the highest-ranking officer Persion had been able to find. The Space Marine had come here expecting to meet the Generals of the PDF but instead had been forced to deal with this boy.

All around them teams of soldiers worked to police the dead, clearing away piles of corpses and dragging more out of the ruined building. Persion didn't understand why they were wasting time on this derelict ruin, not when there were hordes of enemies rampaging throughout the city. Even now he could hear the sounds of fighting continuing, battles filling the streets in all directions. To have several hundred soldiers idling their heels here seemed a monumental waste, but trying to drive that fact into this callow youth's head was proving impossible.

Marshal Gunnah interrupted to say, "Then get your commanders on the vox."

Mortima frowned in consternation as he pleaded, "I don't have the authority."

The Arbites commander wasn't pleased by that response and growled, "I am giving you the authority. I am the God-Emperor's law on this world, defy me and you shall be judged unworthy in His sight."

Mortima swallowed nervously and stammered, "We're trying, but the vox waves are jumbled and confused. We're getting conflicting reports from all quarters. Fighting, rioting, an army of mutants surging out of the undercity. Mutants on Pascum, it's inconceivable!"

Persion growled, "These are no mutants, you have been invaded by an alien menace."

Mortima jaw fell and he gasped, "Aliens invading?! No, it can't be, they wouldn't' t, they couldn't!"

Persion snapped irately, "They can and they have. You need to contact your superiors immediately and tell them we need to coordinate our efforts to repulse the enemy."

Mortima shook his head and pleaded, "But my orders…"

"Are outdated," Gunnah barked, "The situation has evolved. Go contact your generals, NOW!"

The captain's defiance wilted and he turned to scurry away, seeking a vox-operator. Persion watched him go and muttered, "Damnation. Toran would have that sop convinced in a heartbeat. How does he do it?"

"What's that?" Gunnah asked distractedly.

"Nothing," Persion sighed, "I suppose all we can do now is wait."

"Not quite," Gunnah corrected, "Let's go talk to that sergeant over there."

Persion frowned as he asked, "Why?"

Gunnah grinned evilly as he said, "First rule of dealing with the army: you can talk to the officer who thinks he's in charge or to the sergeant who actually knows what's going on."

The pair of them walked over, passing their squads as they did so. The combined force of Space Marines and Arbites had made it through the choked streets, killing many foes as they did so. Persion was satisfied that they hadn't lost anymore Brothers or Arbites but their ammunition supplies were growing perilously low. As soon as they were done here he needed to find a clear spot for their circling Thunderhawk to set down and unload. Should have ordered a drop-pod delivery, Persion berated himself, but it was too late for second-guessing.

The pair of them approached a Sergeant, who was hefting bodies into piles. He was amply muscled and carried many tattoos over his bare arms, while his jaw was unshaven. The man saw them coming and turned to make the sign of the Aquila and declared, "Sergeant Geeth, at your service."

Persion returned the gesture and said, "Lieutenant Persion, Marshal Gunnah. We need to talk to you."

Geeth sniffed, "Captain Mortima Frak-all' use was he?"

Persion was surprised at the curt dismissal but Gunnah grinned as he said, "I take it he hasn't been making himself useful."

"Pah, junior officers are all alike," Geeth sneered, "Couldn't find his arse with both hands and a map."

Persion was taken aback by the comment and snapped, "Does your world take so little pride in its officers? I thought you bred for capability here."

Geeth chuckled, "In theory the officers are bred to lead, in practice they're bred to dance in ballrooms, look handsome and know which fork to use at the dinner table. Most of the officers haven't fired a weapon in anger in their lives; the thought of a real war makes them piss themselves. You should see the comforts they drag with them on manoeuvres; we grunts spend more time packing up their little luxuries than we do slogging through muddy fields."

Gunnah didn't seem to object to the man's bitter tirade as he said, "Sergeant, what happened to the high command?"

Geeth scratched his ear as he replied, "It was a bit confusing, first we knew explosions were tearing the headquarters apart, then they came. Twisted things pouring through the smoke and haze. Took all we had to fend them off, lost a lot of good mates before it was over."

"And your Generals?" Persion pressed.

Geeth replied, "They took off at the first hint of danger, fleeing to safety. Typical of the top snobs, they left us to die to save their own skins."

Persion was surprised and hissed, "They abandoned comrades-in-arms to fight alone, what kind of soldiers are they?!"

Gunnah sneered, "I always knew Clemas Bassail was yellow, no wonder you sound so resentful."

Their conservation was interrupted as Captain Mortima strode back, an angry look upon his face. The young man stomped up to them and snapped, "I should have known!"

Persion cocked his head and asked, "Known what?"

Mortima glared up at him and spat, "Don't play dumb with me. I have just spoken to General Clemas Bassail. He told me what you did!"

Persion noted the soldiers behind him were no longer shifting bodies but spreading out, trying to encircle the Space Marines. Centuries of combat experience told him the situation was shifting and he moved his hand fractionally closer to the Friction Axe on his belt as he sub-vocalised an alert to his squads. Without doing anything obvious the squads hefted their weapons and made ready, their acknowledgements blinking up in his helm's display.

Persion glared at the indignant officer and growled, "I don't know what you've been told but you're making a mistake."

"You don't fool me," Mortima decried, "You betrayed Pascum, your Imperium betrayed us! This madness is all you're doing!"

Gunnah's hand fell to his power mace as he hissed, "Don't try it."

But Mortima yelled, "All troops, open fir…"

His declaration was interrupted by Persion's fist smashing into his face, shattering the fragile bone to drive a ceramite cudgel through his braincase and out the other side. The Captain's corpse collapsed, missing a head, and everybody gasped. Sergeant Geeth's eyes widened in shock but his reflex was to go for the lasrifle slung over his shoulder. He was interrupted by Gunnah's power mace slamming into his chest, shattering ribs and crushing his vital organs. Persion drew his Friction Axe with his augmetic hand as he yelled, "Defend yourselves Brothers!"

The encircling soldiers reacted as they had been trained to do, going for their lasrifles, but the Space Marines were faster. Persion threw himself at a knot of soldiers, bearing down on them with immense weight and speed. They managed to get off a single volley and the Lieutenant felt lasbolts slam into his amour, converted into kinetic force as the outer ceramite layer was burned off by terrific heat. It didn't stop him, he barrelled through the impacts and pounced on the men with a great sweep of his axe. Cleaved heads and limbs fell to the floor as his red-hot blade cut through them, leaving cauterised wounds in his wake. Bayonets and knives came at him as the soldiers tried to fight back but Persion was a Space Marine, in close confines they were no match for him and he slaughtered half-a-dozen men in seconds.

All around a ferocious battle raged as the Imperials tore into the natives. The Reivers dove into the fray with eager relish, slitting throats and letting blood flow. Jediah led them from the front, enjoying slaughtering these helpless dupes as much as the Hybrids. Yones' intercessors were critically low on ammo so eschewed shooting, instead preferring to use the stocks of their guns and combat knives. They were equally deadly with these implements and they reaped a fearfully tally as they advanced. The Devastators formed up into a Codex pattern arrowhead, the Brothers bearing heavy bolters sheltering behind their squadmates. Zeax was at point, his Thunder Hammer smiting any foe who came within reach. And at the rear the Arbites advanced in a wall of riot shields, their combat shotguns mowing down anybody foolish enough to get in their way.

Persion saw the soldiers wouldn't last long and he shouted, "Lay down your arms, we are not your enemy!"

The soldiers refused to listen, still trying to reform and surround the Imperials and Jediah yelled, "No good, we'll have to kill them all!"

"Every trooper on the planet?!" Yones barked as he crushed a skull, "They've all turned on us!"

"If we have to," Persion growled as he tore a man's legs off, "We don't have any…"

His cry was cut off as he heard a distinctive whistling noise: a high-pitched scream of something small and heavy travelling extremely fast. It was as familiar to him as the howl of a Thunderhawk's engines but far less welcome. His guts clenched in dread and a cold chill ran down his back as he recognised the tone of artillery shells, Earthshaker rounds, headed their way. With a flash of forlorn insight he realised Mortima hadn't been totally incompetent, the fool had ordered an artillery bombardment on his own coordinates in case he died.

"Incoming!" Persion bellowed but it was too late. The ground he was standing on exploded, disappearing into brilliant flashes, showering earth and Ferrocrete chunks. Persion felt himself being thrown away as the detonation sent him spinning into the air, his immense weight moot when set against the force of an artillery bombardment. His armour shrieked warnings of damage as he hit the ground and rolled over, covering his helm with his hands. He ached in every inch of his body but he had no time to recover. The bombardment did not cease but kept coming, the distant gunners firing as fast as they were able. Explosions rocked Persion's world, filling his universe with madness and death and all he could do was endure.

The soldiers they were fighting were obliterated in the first salvo and several nearby buildings collapsed as stray shells tore them apart. Yet the Space Marines were far from invulnerable. Persion saw a shell land mere metres away from the Devastators and they were hurled in all directions by the blast. One of them took the full force of the explosion and was blown to pieces, ceramite shards and bloody chunks raining down like grizzly hail. Another was thrown high into the air and fell in a tangle of shattered limbs, his neck snapped by the force of the blast. Two noble Brothers cut down in an instant by foes they had not even seen.

Persion felt successive blast waves battering him but he knew to stay here was to die so he yelled, "Fallback! Everybody initiate a tactical withdrawal!" He rose to his feet and sprinted as fast as he was able. There was no point trying to evade, the shells were landing randomly and he was as likely to be hit running in a straight line as he was if he zigzagged. He put his head down and sprinted for all he was worth, desperately hoping to escape the blastzone. The others ran with him, every Space Marine scrambling for distance but not all of them made it. A Reiver was caught in the chest by a Ferrocrete spear, blown free of the road at a terrific velocity. He collapsed with a two-meter javelin of rock protruding from his chest, dead before he hit the ground.

Persion couldn't help the fallen, all he could do was run. He put one foot in front of the other, expecting any second to die in a ball of fire. He couldn't see more than a few inches in front of his face and the vibrations shook his genhanced bones within his chest. Were he not Transhuman the air would have been sucked out of his lungs and his organs pulped. He heard more explosions fall behind him, then suddenly he was out of the bombardment zone, running down a clear street.

He pulled up and spun about, counting their losses. Three Brothers had died in that inferno, torn apart in moments. The rest looked scarcely any better, their armour battered and chipped in countless places. Persion was surprised to see four Arbites had made it out alive, including Gunnah. They had been only on the periphery of the bombardment zone yet still they had lost most of their number. Persion faced the Arbites and asked, "Marshal, are you hale?"

"What?!" Gunnah yelled, "What did you say?!"

Persion saw blood running out of his ears and realised the force of the detonations had ruptured his eardrums; the mortals were deaf and concussed. Persion heard more shells falling on their former location and snapped, "Hurry, we have to fall back before they spread their targeting."

Memnos protested, "The gene-seed of the fallen, I have to go back!"

"Negative," Persion snapped, "You back there, you die. We are moving out!"

He matched deeds to words by turning and striding away. The others followed him but Yones muttered, "Red Sands, so we have to fight a Genestealer cult and the PDF too. How are we supposed to do that?"

Persion could only say, "I have absolutely no idea," as he led them back into the fires of war.


	31. Chapter 31

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 31**

The way was clear and certain as the future unfolded. The final destination was as yet out of sight but each step along the road carried him towards that goal. It was like being carried down a fast-moving river, knowing that it must inevitably reach the sea. All Manaar had to do was follow the way and he would reach his goal. Anything that stood in his way was but a temporary distraction, nothing more. The certainty filled him and he knew no doubt or fear, which was good because right now he was in the middle of a ferocious firefight.

In a wide street, mobs of Mon-Keigh waged battle in a deadly scrum. Around burned out ground-cabs and charred bodies filthy criminal-caste brutes hunkered down and fired laspistols and autoguns at blurry forms in the distance. Their armour was scant and mismatched, flak jackets and leather bodysuits more appropriate for intimidating rival gangs than a military engagement. Their guns were an eclectic mix of energy and projectile weapons, some of them centuries old and worn from constant use. This was Fysk's so-called army, more a collection of thugs and ruffians loyal to his rule than anything else. But they could shoot, lives of violence in the slums guaranteed that those who couldn't shoot straight died young.

Set against them alien Hybrids laid down streams of disciplined fire, moving with coordination and grace that set the thugs to shame. Waves of lasfire, punctured by the occasional shotgun blast tore apart any ruffian who dared show their face while return fire claimed but a scant few of their number. In the face of an aggressive charge they instinctively formed crossfires with preternatural ease, born from their union of spirit. They were far superior to the ramshackle hooligans Fysk employed and would have butchered the improvised army were it not for the presence of the Inquisitorial retinue.

Manaar was ahead of the main advance, bounding from the roofs of ground-cabs with great leaps of his legs. Each jump took him many metres yet so soft were his footfalls that he barely rocked the machines on their suspensions. Lasfire chased him but the Hybrids were too slow and weren't leading correctly, unable to compensate for his fleetness. One step, two, three and he was in amongst a knot of enemies, somersaulting over their heads as his Phase-blades flashed. A pair of Hybrids collapsed missing their heads before Manaar's feet touched the ground and as he bowed low his arms swept outwards, scything off legs and feet. Blood sprayed from cleaved limbs and enemies shuddered as they went into Hypovolemic shock. Manaar had studied Mon-Keigh weakness and knew they would bleed out in scant minutes. The remaining Hybrids roared as the survivors swung about but Manaar tumbled forward, rolling head over heels and coming up with a rising slash that finished off the last two Hybrids.

One knot of enemies had been dealt with and he looked about to see the rest of the retinue engaging. Lumix was firing from a burned-out cab, his grav-pistol crushing singular foes into tiny balls of skin and bone. Vevara, on the other hand, was firing sweeping beams of purple energy from her pistol, ravening lances that set her foes alight. Mortula was in closer, her greatsword never ceasing to move as she dispatched foes with elegant grace. The Hybrids seemed to become confused whenever she drew near but they fought wildly and her silver armour was chipped and gouged in many places. Further out Eirk was laying down hammering volleys from his Hellgun as he bellowed, "Secure the left flank! You, you there, you are the left flank! Move!"

Manaar saw that for all their rough manners the criminal-caste were hardy fighters, making up for their poor discipline with ruthless aggression and numbers. They were making good progress, despite growing casualties, pushing towards the heart of the city. Vevara seemed to think that was where they needed to go and so they had launched their counter-assault. The violence and the bloodshed excited Manaar, the stench of dead bodies and burning buildings lending savour to the experience. The sounds of guns and dying foes were music to his ears and the patterns of fallen bodies a pleasing artwork. Truly he was making a masterpiece of death and his surging emotions fed his urge to wreck more. Such emotions could be dangerously addictive, from these impulses were Exarchs born, but they also amplified Manaar's skills, elevating him to another level of deadliness.

His reverie was cut short as bulky shadows loomed over the skyline and he cried, "Ware, foes above!"

"Take cover!" Vevara screamed as teams of Hybrids popped up over the lintels of nearby rooftops, aiming missile launchers into the street.

The thug army dove for cover but too slow as three separate teams fired into their midst. Flashing contrails of exhaust described perfect arcs as fat rockets flew into their midst and detonated. Thugs went down screaming as shrapnel ripped into soft bodies, spraying blood in all directions. Manaar felt a piece of metal ping off his carapace but his Aspect armour hardened on impact, the flexible weave spreading Kinetic energy over a larger area and it failed to penetrate. So he kept his position, knowing he was too close to a nearby wall to be targeted directly.

Vevara crouched behind a wrecked Cargo-8 and fired upwards as she yelled, "We're pinned!"

Mortula shouted, "We have to break out!"

Yet Lumix countered, "There is no safe path."

Vevara ducked back and yelled, "Alien… you do something!"

Eirk added, "Come on bug-man, put that fancy armour to use!"

Manaar ignored them, for he had been concentrating. His mind had been calculating distances and angles, judging the optimal solutions and then when he was ready he triggered his Warp-jump pack. The world disappeared in a burst of unlight and Manaar felt himself moving across the surface of the warp. For an instant he hung in that no-place, exposed to the horrors within but he was without fear and they had no purchase on his soul. He emerged a heartbeat later, a mere metre behind the Hybrid team and before they could react he triggered his Deathspinners.

From the armatures hanging at his sides shot forth packets of diffuse threads. Monomolecular chains held in magnetic bottles and spooled into tangled weavings. At his impulse the weapons discharged bundles of these threads, letting them expand as they contacted air. He bore a short-ranged variant of these weapons but in close confines they were utterly lethal. Single-molecule chains impacted the Hybrids, passing through flak armour like it wasn't there. On contact with matter the threads bunched and pulled against each other, slicing flesh like a meatgrinder. The two Hybrids were hit by millions of these threads and simply fell apart, dissolving into piles of stinking offal where once there had been living enemies.

Manaar didn't stay to see the results; he was already jumping across the warp, skimming towards his next target. He emerged behind the second team, who were pointing their rocket launcher over the edge of the roof. Before they could fire Manaar hit them with his Deathspinners, turning them into piles of gore. Two out of three teams were dead but Manaar felt the ticking of seconds running against him and leapt once more into the warp.

He emerged behind the third team and eviscerated them with barely a second to spare but in his haste he failed to see this team had a third member. As the two gunners disintegrated Manaar was tackled by a massive brute with four arms and gnashing teeth. It felt like being hit by a freight train and the pair of them slammed into the rooftop with a heavy thud. The Warp Spider felt the weight of his attacker trying to crush him but his carapace became rigid under the blow and spread the force safely.

Clawed hands tore at his front and razor-sharp fangs gnashed a hairsbreadth from his faceplate as Manaar struggled to get free. He could see the scaled patterns embedded in the foe's skin, the non-human set of its muscles and the slitted irises in the eyes. This foe wasn't entirely human or genestealer; there was something else in its genes, a trace of bestial heritage that elevated it over its regular kin. Manaar had never fought anything like it before but he was not afraid, this was a challenge he could relish.

The foe was trying to tear his armour off and reach the soft flesh beneath but Manaar threw all his weight to one side and gained an inch of clearance. Then he bucked his back and kicked upwards, throwing his foe off him. Instantly he brought up his Deathspinners, intending to finish it off, but the enemy recovered alarmingly fast, hurling itself at him with claws outstretched. Manaar was forced to leap backwards, somersaulting away as the claws swiped the air beneath him and the brute's roar echoed off surrounding buildings.

The wail of animal frustration sounded in his ears but he landed lightly and bowed low, arms held level to the ground, then he powered forward. His Phase-blades flickered, drawing two lines of red over his enemy's chest but to his astonishment they failed to penetrate, some exotic aspect of its hide resisting their shimmering edges. Then a fist like a thunderbolt smacked Manaar out of the air, throwing him to the ground with three rents torn into his carapace.

Manaar hit the floor and rolled over, coming up into a crouch as he gazed upon his foe. Fast and strong and almost impervious to his weapons, the Traitor Marine Manaar had once killed hadn't been this much trouble. Manaar was given a seconds pause but only for an instant, he yet knew one way to beat this foe. The brute snarled in triumph as it raised all four arms high, intending to finish him off. Yet Manaar's resolve was unwavering, he did not know if his opponent had the brains to understand but as he leapt high he cried, "For Furta-Rith!"

The brute's strike missed him entirely as he went straight up, flipping over its head. His arc was sharp and he came down hard, not behind it but right onto its shoulders, landing on its back. The brute screamed in outrage and flung itself about in an effort to shake him off but Manaar wrapped his hands and legs around its torso, then he triggered his jump-pack. Eldar and Genestealer Hybrid disappeared in a burst of unlight, falling into the realm of chaos. Even in the shallowest part of the Empyrean Manaar felt the Daemons of the Warp stirring, his spirit was pure but the brute was filled with rage and abject terror, drawing Neverborn like moths to a flame. All Manaar had to do was let go and then he vanished back to realspace, leaving the screaming Hybrid to be consumed by the maws of a million hungry nightmares.

He appeared an instant later, back in the street where he had been. His heart thundered in his chest and his passions ran hot but he did not let them show as he took in the scene. He found the Mon-Keigh picking themselves up, woozily staggering forward and blinking in shock at their losses. Inquisitor Vevara stalked forward snapping, "Hurry up, stop dawdling. We need to keeping moving. Manaar, are the rooftops secure?"

Manaar didn't bother to explain his feats, the apes couldn't possibly grasp the majesty of his kills, so said plainly, "The way is clear."

Erik beamed as he proclaimed, "Good work, for an alien."

Manaar ignored the human as he said, "I shall scout ahead. You follow."

But Mortula jogged past him shouting, "Ha, see if you can keep up!"

Manaar disdained the banter as he ran down the street, chasing the Null Maiden' fleeting form. Another step on his road had been completed and he was eager to take the next. His heart yearned to finish the mission and he could sense the end was near, soon he would fulfil his goal and woe betide any Genestealer that tried to stand in his way.


	32. Chapter 32

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 32**

The Autocannon team was proving hard to dislodge. They were dug-in at the window of a burned out shop, using the low parapet for cover. Persion could just make out the metal screen beyond the protruding barrel and the shadowy figures lurking behind it. Hybrids or native PDF, it was hard to tell at this range and no longer mattered. Anyone not Imperial was attacking them.

Persion ducked as the barrel shifted a fraction of a degree and sure enough a second later a flat crump resounded as the heavy weapon team fired. A fat shell smashed into the pile of broken bricks he was lurking behind, the remains of a blown out house and blew chunks high into the air. With him were the embattled Imperials, the surviving squads and the Arbites. They were harried and worn, their armour dented and chipped and their wounds multiplying. Everywhere they went in this city they were attacked, either by roving packs of Hybrids or desperately confused PDF soldiers. The Space Marines had been in constant battle and their wounds were increasing in number and severity, only their genhanced frames and Memnos' skills were keeping them going.

The Apothecary was hurriedly digging shrapnel out of an Intercessor's leg, blood coating the mechandrites of his Narthecium as he spat, "What's taking so Frakking long?!"  
Jediah was crouching near Persion as he stated, "They will get there when they get there."

From behind Marshal Gunnah winced as he yelled, "What was that?" Persion sighed, the mortal's hearing was still defunct, so he waved a hand to keep the man low. Suddenly there was a distant explosion, as a barrage of Earthshaker shells levelled another part of the city. The remote bombardment had been a perennial headache. Anytime he had attempted to stop and regroup the artillery had vectored onto their position. An attempt to direct their circling Thunderhawk onto the artillery had been hastily aborted, driven off by potent anti-air defences and a pair of Lightning interceptors. The gunship had made short work of them but they couldn't risk another encounter, there would be no air-support today. Thus they had been forced to keep moving, pushing ever deeper into the warzone. Persion wasn't lost, Space Marines didn't get lost, but he was painfully aware he had no idea where he was headed or what objectives they would achieve when they got there.

Suddenly his vox clicked twice and Persion nodded to Yones. The pair of them rose as one and threw themselves into the open, racing across the length of the street. There was another dull bang as the gunners fired again but they had not accounted for the sheer acceleration and speed of a Transhuman running flat out. Persion heard a shell whistle by his head, hurtling past so fast even he couldn't see it. Then he dove into the shadow of an alley on the opposite side of the street. He needn't have worried though, for his vox crackled, "Target eliminated."

Persion stuck his head back out of cover and saw Sergeant Gotram climbing out the window, along with two Reivers. Their Phobos armour was caked in brick dust and their knives were wet with blood. Persion was relieved, his feint had drawn the mortal's attention so the infiltrators could close from another direction and flank them. A perfectly executed manoeuvre, as laid down in the Codex Astartes.

However Yones seemed to disagree for he stepped out of cover and grumbled, "You should have let me do that alone."  
Persion headed back to his squads as he replied, "And be thought a coward?"

Yones retorted, "You're in command, you can't go heedlessly flinging yourself into danger. You're supposed to be ordering me to risk my neck."  
"Lecture me later," Persion grumbled, "We need to move on."

Memnos looked up as they approached and protested, "These wounds need time to heal.""No time," Persion uttered, "Can you walk Brother Reidna?"

The wounded Intercessor lurched drunkenly to his feet and hefted his Bolt rifle as he avowed, "It'll take more than this to stop me!"  
"See, he's fit and able," Persion declared, "Let's go."

The party formed up, marching through the desolate streets as the Reivers scouted ahead. Persion saw signs of fighting everywhere, the battle continuing to rage. The PDF and the cult were both hunting them, but they were still fighting each other too. Locked in a battle that was impossible to break off. Persion intended to let them fight it out, better that than have them unite against his force. Beyond that he had little idea what to do next, the Codex Astartes was sadly lacking in guidance for this strategic situation.

Persion felt a breath of air as Jediah stepped closer and whispered, "We need to head underground."  
Persion's helm turned fractionally as he asked, "You want to hide from the artillery?"

Jediah corrected him, "I want to find that Patriarch."  
Why?" Persion asked.  
Jediah explained, "Cults like this are centred upon their progenitor. Kill that monster and they become a headless snake."

Persion shook his head and said, "We can't risk dividing our forces, we need every gun we've got."  
"To do what?" Jediah hissed, "Wander about in circles until we run out of ammo and blood?"

Persion sighed, "I'm trying to come up with a plan."  
"And while you ponder we will start dying," Jediah accused, "We need to seize the initiative."

Thankfully he was saved from having to answer as Gotram waved them to halt. Persion peered ahead and heard the sounds of fighting raging in a wide plaza. He spent a millisecond comparing his location to his mental map of the city and realised they were at the famous Flesh-markets, Pascum's most notorious feature. The plaza was wide open and ringed by many-storied buildings, making it a deathtrap for anyone caught under those gaping windows. Which it was certainly proving to be.

In the centre of the square a knot of PDF soldiers was dug in around a tank, a Leman Russ Punisher, Persion noted. The mortals weren't alone, they had a squad of Arbites with them, hunkering down behind riot shields. From behind those bulwarks desperate men in brown jackets fired lasrifles upwards, trying to pick off their ambushers. Meanwhile the tank behind them rotated its turret and hammered building fronts with streams of bullets from its shrieking Gatling cannon. It was a robust and tested armoured vehicle but the PDF were trapped in an impossible situation and would be cut down in minutes.

Persion waved the Space Marines to circle the firefight saying, "Quickly, while they're distracted we can go around."  
"We're not engaging?" Yones asked in disbelief.

"Who?" Persion countered, "Everybody is shooting us. Let them fight each other, saves us having to do it."  
Persion could tell that remark offend the Space Marines' pride but it was Gunnah who snapped loudly, "That's my men dying in there!"

The man may not be able to hear but he could see Persion's intent. The Lieutenant placed a hand on his shoulder, preparing to steer him away. Yet suddenly a new noise arose, a ragged shout of defiance mixed with a multitude of small calibre weapons discharging. Persion's head snapped about and he saw a third force entering the Flesh-markets, a wave of filthy thugs and ruffians pouring into the square. They surged into the battlezone with little thought for coordination or fire-patterns, merely running for the nearest cover as they let rip at the buildings with small-arms. They had little in the way of fire discipline but they made up for it with bulk volume, blasting Hybrids with near-misses and the occasional lucky shot.

Of all the insane things he had seen this day nothing compared to this. Who were these people, Persion wondered, where had they come from? He had no inkling of an answer, then he spied someone familiar: Inquisitor Vevara. The woman was striding into the open area, surrounded by her mismatched retinue and shouting instructions at the mobs following her. Persion had no idea where she had mustered her rag-tag army from but he recognised that she was no servant of the Genestealers. Here at last was someone he could expect to stand with the Space Marines.

"Turn and engage!" Persion yelled, "Break into combat squads and clear those buildings. Zeax, take those two buildings there, Jediah's Reivers, that one and that one. Yones take half your squad and clear that one, I'll take the others and clear that café."

Responding to his orders the Astartes and Primaris wheeled about and charged at the buildings, leaving the Arbites dumbfounded in their wake. Persion had no time to consider the Marshal as he led five Intercessors into a café-building. The next few minutes were a blur of blood-letting as they smote the Hybrids within. It was a vicious close-quarters engagement but the Space Marines drilled urban clearance operations daily and their attack was professional and swift. In the space of a few minutes they turned the café into a morgue, leaving none alive. Persion cut the last Hybrid apart himself, throwing the body out a smashed glassic window that once must have given a panoramic view of the city.

He saw the mortals gathering together in the open space below and left the Intercessors to check the dead as he descended to meet with them. Persion swiftly made his way towards the gathering and saw Inquisitor Vevara standing with Marshal Gunnah, a heavy-set man he didn't recognise and a Lieutenant of the PDF. Her retinue was lounging about, congratulating themselves and Persion started as he saw the Eldar among them, wearing the armour of a Warp Spider. The sight grated on his Hypno-indoctrination, a silhouette his conditioning abhorred. It required a conscious effort not to draw his pistol and shoot the loathed form of the alien, a righteous urge born of ten thousand years of war. Sadly Persion had to restrain himself, but he kept his Friction Axe in hand, ready to use it at the first sign of treachery.

As he closed he heard Vevara saying, "Then your general is a Traitor most foul. Rest assured the Holy Inquisition shall make him pay for this perfidy."  
The young PDF officer nodded eagerly and replied, "I am glad you are here my lady. So many conflicting orders, so many rumours. We didn't know what to believe."

Persion strode up to them and barked, "What's this?"  
Vevara glanced up at the Space Marine dismissively and said, "Ah there you are, took you long enough. I was just explaining to Lieutenant Cibbons that his previous orders are countermanded by the authority of the God-Emperor's Inquisition."

Persion stared at the young officer and snapped, "Who are you and why should I care? The PDF has been trying to kill me all day."  
This Cibbons stammered, "Orders… orders from General Bassail. He blames you for this mess, he says the Imperium betrayed Pascum. But these Arbites were fighting those... those things. I didn't know what to believe."

Vevara overrode him, "Clemas Bassail is in league with traitors and aliens. I have denounced his command authority and as an Inquisitor I demand all true servants of the Golden Throne reject his orders and rally to the banner of Terra. Get on the vox and spread the word."

Cibbons gulped, "Some unit's will listen, but others won't. It's a confusing mess out there."  
Persion pressed, "Can you at least keep the artillery off us?"  
"For a while," Cibbons informed him, "I can do it, but not for long."  
"Then do so," Persion demanded, "I have a Thunderhawk full of ammo waiting to set down, this seems as good a place as any."

The officer scuttled off as the heavy-set man stared up at the Space Marine in disbelief. Persion's helm rotated to stare back and he hissed, "What?"  
"Nothing," the man replied, "You're taller than I imagined is all."

Vevara said, "May I introduce citizen Fysk, his friends have agreed to aid us in this battle."  
"Us?" Persion growled, "I haven't agreed to work with you."

Vevara replied frostily, "Get over yourself, I have no time to soothe your wounded pride. We both know you're going to join forces with me. Can we skip the banal threats and pointed sniping and get to the part where you come up with a plan?"

Fysk snorted, "That's a woman who's done this dance before."  
Persion was annoyed but knew they were right, his forces were outmatched and outgunned, they had to change that fact or die. It stuck in his throat but he needed Vevara and her allies so he said, "Haven't you got a plan?"

Vevara replied, "Yes I did: find the vaunted Space Marines and join forces to defeat the Genestealers."  
"Bad plan," Persion muttered, "We won't last another day in this city."  
"Then what do you suggest?" Vevara snapped, "Tactics are meant to be the Astartes' forte. Beating impossible odds is what you're built for, so snap to it."

Persion's hearts sank as he realised that everybody was expecting him to have some marvellous plan hidden behind his back. It was unavoidable, he had to find some way to win this war and fast or they were all dead. Yet he knew this mismatched force wouldn't make much difference in the grand scheme of things, not set against two armies. Secretly in the depths of his soul he wished someone else was in charge of this mission and more than anything else he wished Captain Toran was here, instead of him.


	33. Chapter 33

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 33**

The Thunderhawk 'Starfire' sat in the open ground of the Flesh-market with its engines cooling. The gunship was a burly warrior of the skies, with angled armour and a blunt nose, designed to withstand the inferno of re-entry. Nothing about this craft lent itself to aesthetics, it gave no consideration to beauty or grace but to those who had seen one diving on an attack run she held a magnificence all her own. From the armour-busting lascannons to her underslung heavy bolters, to the proud Turbolaser on her spine, strength and lethality ran through her. For good reason has such gunships been the mainstay of the Adeptus Astartes for ten millennia and her form dazzled the awed crowds.

In the Flesh-markets a throng of people was gathering. There were random units of the PDF, heeding the Inquisitor's call to arms. They were battered and disorganised but they were loyal to the Golden Throne, unlike their erstwhile comrades who yet fought on across the city. There were also the criminal warriors of Fysk's gangs, rubbing shoulders with growing numbers of Arbites. The law-keepers and felons eyed each other warily but kept their guns pointed away, so a fragile truce held for a moment. And there were civilians, hundreds of them. None could say how the fleeing masses had found their way to the Flesh-markets but the siren call of safe harbour drew ever more people and they huddled together in shocked packs, eyes pleading for hope.

In the midst of that crowd Starfire was being unloaded, crates of ammunition and explosives being brought out of the hold by lines of Astartes. The warriors were eager to stock up their meagre reserves and grabbed bolter magazines and grenades with quick hands. Heavy Bolters were replenished and melta bombs were passed out freely. Armour suits were also tended to, their rents and gouges patched up with quick-setting repair paste, leaving grey streaks across their blue colours. The Astartes worked quickly and efficiently, ignoring the crowd of desperate onlookers, yet there was one who was not helping.

In the Thunderhawk's cockpit Persion sat in the pilot's chair and fumed. He had removed his helm, revealing a bitter expression and his lips moved as he muttered imprecations under his breath. Persion had ordered the pilots to assist with the unloading, so he could have some space to himself. So he sat in the reinforced chair, staring out the cockpit windows across the ruined vista of the city. He could see the broken rooftops and billowing towers of smoke and the monument to Reunification, stabbing upwards like a miraculous lone tree left in the burnt remnants of a dead forest. The sight reminded him of his many failures since he had set foot upon this world and he bitterly recounted them. The errors of judgement, the missed opportunities, the losses they had suffered, all adding up to one inescapable conclusion: the Genestealers were winning.

His sulking was interrupted by a scuffle on the ladder leading up to the cockpit and he glanced behind to see Jediah climbing into the small space. He stepped through the hatch and stood behind Persion as he said, "We need to talk."  
Persion slumped back into his chair and muttered, "I'm not in the mood."

Jediah leaned over the back of the co-pilot's chair and said, "Your mood is irrelevant, the Inquisitor wants to know your plan."  
"Tell her I don't have one," Persion snapped irately.

Jediah retorted, "Then make one."  
Persion snorted dismissively, "I wish it was that easy. Everyone is looking at me like I know what I'm doing, but I don't. Toran makes it look easy; he always knows what to do, he never looks uncertain."

Now it was Jediah who sneered, "You're jesting; Toran doesn't know what he's doing half the time either. Do you think he meant to challenge a Primarch to a duel and get punched into a coma? You think he planned to get thrown off a bridge by a thinking machine?"

"Well he's better at appearing confident," Persion sighed, "I keep asking myself what he would do, how would he take a gaggle of mismatched parts and turn it into a fighting force. I've known him as long as Furion and I still don't know how he pulls off half the stuff he does."

Jediah sniffed, "He trusts in his Marines and they trust him. Frankly You're not very good at inspiring trust and you lack his strength of will."  
"My thanks," Persion scoffed, "You should consider a career as a councillor."

Jediah ignored that remark as he stated, "I am taking my Reivers and heading underground. We are going to hunt that Patriarch."  
Persion sighed, "I thought you might. I suppose there's no point arguing that I need you here?"  
"No," Jediah said flatly, "We are packing up our gear and moving out in five minutes."

Persion glanced upwards and commented, "If you take eight Reivers up against a Patriarch you will die."  
Jediah didn't look concerned as he replied, "Death or life, either way it would be a fight to enjoy. Goodbye Persion, I probably won't see you again in this life."

He turned to depart but Persion jerked around and said, "How can you do that, be so…. So Jediah about everything?"  
Jediah paused at the hatch and replied, "Because I don't try to be someone I'm not. I know who I am and what I can do and I embrace it. You should too."

"What?" Persion asked in confusion, "What do you mean?"  
Jediah replied, "Stop trying to be someone you're not; stop trying to be the Captain. Instead of asking yourself what Toran would do you should be asking; what would Persion do?"

With that Jediah stepped out the hatch and dropped out of sight. Persion sank back into his seat, looking out over the city and taking it all in. He chewed on what Jediah had said and reflected on his mistakes. He realised then that he had been carrying himself all wrong, trying to be diplomatic and inspiring as his Captain was. He was honest enough to admit he was a poor diplomat and strategist, but he took comfort in the fact that in a straight-up battle he had fared well. As a tactical leader he was competent enough. Persion turned his attention upon that, thinking only of tactics. He discarded all thoughts of his allies and their complicated politics. He dropped all thoughts of the wider strategy and galactic ramifications. The crusade and the Chapter weren't here, they couldn't help him. He thought only of the enemy and his forces, of battle and war. He considered their strengths and weaknesses and their environment.

Persion paused as a thought occurred, then he jerked forward and stared out the window. Before him lay the Jade Citadel, its ramparts and domes shimmering under the shimmering void shield. Across from it soared the monument to Reunification, its majestic height piercing the sky. Persion spent a second measuring angles and distances and a plan began to form. It was ridiculous and impossible but it was all he had.

Persion hastily opened his vox and spent a few minutes working on obscure frequencies. His years as a signal cracker paid off as he bypassed a number of security lockouts and sent a coded message. Then he leapt out of his chair and dove down the ladder. He jogged out of the Thunderhawk's open bay, heading towards the waiting officers and the Inquisitor's party. People fell back before him, clearing his path as Persion barked, "Sergeants attend!"

Yones and Zeax wandered over, followed by Memnos who said, "Jediah and the Reivers just departed."  
"Forget them," Persion snapped, "I have a plan."  
Vevara looked up at him and spoke, "Finally, well out with it."

Persion drew in a slow breath then asked, "First tell me what forces have we added?"  
Marshal Gunnah replied in a flat monotone, "A few hundred PDF soldiers, a couple score Arbites and we've still got a punisher tank."

Persion frowned as he asked, "You can hear?"  
Gunnah inclined his head to reveal a silver device behind his ear as he said, "The Inquisitor's cogboy had something to patch me up."

From the back Lumix stated, "A crude implant, transmitting vibrations to the inner ear. It was hard to find but…"  
"It can wait," Vevara snapped, "What's the plan?"

Persion spread his arms and said, "We can't stay here, this position is untenable. We have no defensive fortifications and no means to launch an offensive. This whole city is filled with enemies, just waiting to crush us. So we will relocate to a better position: the Jade Citadel. Its walls can hold off an army, two in fact. From those walls we can withstand anything the foe throws at us for as long as it takes for our alarm to spread."

"That's your plan?" Zeax scoffed, "Hide behind thick walls until the Crusade sends reinforcements?"  
"I'm not done," Persion retorted, "We won't be idle, because our presence will draw the Genestealers out in force. They will amass to break the Citadel open, they have to, nothing else will crack those walls. So While we draw them out Sergeant Yones will take a combat squad of Intercessors to plant explosives underground. Then when they are right where we want them, Yones is going to drop that Monument on their heads."

Heads turned to take in the monument to Reunification and Yones remarked, "Are you serious?"  
"Absolutely," Persion declared, "That's seventy thousand tons of solid Ferrocrete. Drop that on a crowd and there won't be anything left of them."

Silence reigned for a moment then Vevara stated, "That is a stupid plan."  
"You wanted a tactical plan," Persion countered, "This is it."

Vevara glared at him as she hissed, "I refuse to play any part in this. Your plan has no merit."  
"I don't care what you do," Persion growled, "I am issuing an order to move out, you can stay here and die for all I care."

From the back of the meeting the PDF officer, Cibbons, stated, "I wouldn't recommend that. Word is spreading of our presence and the PDF is dividing into loyalists and traitors. These 'Genestealers' are crushing all who resist and the rest of the PDF is already under their control. Soon the traitor general will notice we are here and will direct Earthshakers to level this place. We need to be elsewhere before that happens."  
Vevara grimaced but she conceded, "I... I suppose that void shield will keep the artillery off us. The Jade Citadel is as good a place as any to make a last stand."

Persion accepted her answer but then the Warp Spider interjected, "This plan is flawed, it relies on five Mon-Keigh to spring the trap. You are not enough, I shall accompany you to make sure it succeeds."  
"We don't need alien filth like you!" Zeax barked angrily.

Yet Yones rolled his eyes and said, "Leave it alone for five minutes. We're fighting two armies and need every gun we can get. One alien doesn't matter when set against thousands."  
"Are you going soft?" Memnos growled, "Trust not the alien, Brother."  
Yones glared as he stated, "We can argue to the end of time about this or get on with the war. I'm leading the kill-team and I welcome anyone who wants to come along."

"Then we shall all accompany you," Vevara asserted, "My retinue shall join your expedition. It's better than sitting in a Citadel waiting for the enemy to come."  
"I'm coming too," Memnos added, "To keep an eye on that alien."

Persion cut off the argument as he snapped, "This isn't a democracy. Yones take half your squad, the Inquisitor's retinue and Memnos and set the explosives. Wait till the moment is right then drop the sky on the enemy's heads."  
Yones made the sign of the Cog and said, "Omnnissiah watch over you."

Persion nodded as he said, "Starfire will take off and provide air support. The rest of us will enter the Jade Citadel and draw the genestealers out. From those walls we will rain down fire to shake the world."

Fysk grinned as he quipped, "All those years being kept out of the Jade Citadel, now I get to walk inside like a king. This war is turning out better and better."  
Gunnah glared at him but asked, "What of the civilians?""They can come with us," Persion answered, "They will be safer behind those walls than anywhere else. Just keep them out of my way, I won't have time to be coddling mortals when the fighting starts."

Nobody looked happy, but Persion was firm in his resolve. This plan may be foolhardy and reckless but it was all they had. Win or lose he had to try something and he was determined to make the enemy pay for their temerity. No matter what he was certain this would hurt the Genestealers, a full-blown siege was always costly to the attacker. Even if he and his Brothers fell they would weaken the Genestealers significantly, leaving them helpless to resist the reprisal force that would sail from the Chapter once word reached them.

Yet it fell to Sergeant Zeax to point out, "There's one enormous flaw in this plan. The Jade Citadel is in lockdown, they're not letting anyone in or out. How do you propose to get us and hundreds of mortals inside those gates?"  
Persion grinned as he replied, "Don't worry, I've already taken care of it."


	34. Chapter 34

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 34**

The Adamantium gate soared over their heads, a vertical slab of indestructible metal barring their path. It was ringed by rounded towers of slab-sided Ferrocrete, pocked with gun blisters and crested by crenulations. Further out the defensive walls were not a smooth circle but shaped into arrowhead protrusions, creating funnels and crossfires to entrap any attacker. To reach the gate one must first brave a lethal crossfire from on high then breach a solid barrier of Adamantium, all while suffering torrents of incoming ordnance.

Persion looked up at the gate and was profoundly glad that the guns weren't firing, for his rag-tag army wouldn't last a few seconds if the defenders chose to start shooting. Behind him lurked hundreds of souls, criminals, Arbites, PDF troopers and hundreds of fearful civilians. He also had five Intercessors and eight Devastators, a paltry force by most reckonings but they were Space Marines and Persion would rather have a dozen Brothers at his back than a hundred lesser soldiers. He was sure from those high walls his followers could make a real difference, the problem was getting inside.

Behind him Sergeant Zeax shrugged his Thunder Hammer and asked, "Are we just going to stand here all day staring at it?"

Persion shook his head and replied, "I'll get it open, just let me talk to them."

Marshal Gunnah stepped up and declared in his deaf monotone, "I'll come with you."

"I'm coming too," Fysk asserted, "Always wanted to get a good look inside the Jade Citadel."

"As you will," Persion allowed, "Zeax, stay here and keep the mortals quiet."

Zeax glanced to the side and inquired, "How do I that?"

Persion raised his voice so all could hear, "Break the jaw of any fool who opens his damned mouth."  
The mortals huddled fearfully back but Zeax sounded amused as he stated cheerfully, "Can do!"

Persion left them behind as he strode to the gate, the law-man and mob boss in tow. Fysk looked up at the towering gate and muttered, "Heard the snobs always moaned about the defences, complaining they ruined the style of their fancy home. Bet they aren't moaning now."  
Gunnah grumbled, "Nothing like a war on your doorstep to make you appreciate the need for military preparedness."

As he walked Persion fell back on his old skills and idly perused the defender's vox-channels, easily bypassing their comms security. Compared to an Astartes Chapter their protocols were laughably ineffective. He heard a babble of voices from within, people calling for orders and querying what they should do. He quickly determined that the defenders were singularly lacking in coordination, several officers talking over each other, each thinking they were in command of the gate. Persion sighed, it seemed the Governor had merely ordered a lockdown and left her guards leaderless as she hid, that wouldn't do.

Persion picked one name at random from the babble as he strode up to the gate, then he rapped the metal with the butt of his Friction Axe as he cut through the vox-waves, "Major Trennan, get out here!"

He stepped back and waited for a response but Gunnah leaned over and asked, "What exactly are you planning to say?"  
"I don't know," Persion admitted, "I was planning to wing it, just try to look confident."  
"I can do that," Gunnah confirmed, "Walking into any situation like you own the place is the first lesson in dealing with criminal scum."

Persion stood still as he waited, not letting slip any hint of anxiety. He had to look like he had every right to be here, he had to impress his authority from the start. He reminded himself that he was the Emperor's Finest and therefore the highest ranking warrior on the planet. The mandate of Terra hung upon him and any who opposed his will was by default in the wrong. It was a nice sentiment, it was just a shame he didn't really believe he was up to it.

After a couple of minutes a portly man stuck his head out of a high-seated gun blister, carefully stepping around the Heavy Bolter crew taking up most of the space. He wore a peaked cap and his shirt was hung with gold braiding and cheap medals. His face was jowly and he had a thick moustache that was precisely waxed and curled at the tips. He looked more suited to the dinner table than the battlefield and Persion judged the man hadn't fought a proper war in his life. The officer looked down on them with watery eyes and had to yell to be heard from his high perch, "Who approaches the gate of the Dominus?"

Persion looked up at the man and checked his vox was open as he replied boldly, "The Adeptus Astartes come. In the name of the Emperor you will open this gate!"  
Trennan called back, "I cannot do that without orders."

Gunnah lifted his head and called out, "Your Governor cowers behind high walls, while her planet falls into ruin. She should be leading the fight to reclaim her world!"  
"The Dominus is the ruler of this world, you have no right to question her decisions," Trennan rebuffed them.

Fysk yelled, "Open your eyes you damned fool! These are your people dying out here. Look at them, they won't survive if you don't let us in."  
Trennan didn't sound impressed as he retorted, "The fates of lower-caste dregs are not my concern."  
Fysk muttered under his breath, "Self-righteous Grox-Fondler, I should have known the snobs wouldn't care."

Persion had been quiet throughout this but he finally spoke, "Time's up, open the gate."  
Trennan yelled back indignantly, "For the last time: no!"  
Persion shifted his head slightly and snorted, "What made you think I was talking to you?"

Suddenly there was an almighty rumble and the sound of gears grinding. A series of weighty thuds rang out as locks inside the gate began to ratchet open and reinforcing bars slid back into the walls. A deep vibration rumbled through the ground as a seam appeared in the middle of the doors, a widening gap that grew as the doors retracted. Two slabs of Adamantium rolled back, revealing the way within, while the guards sitting on the gate stood dumbfounded.

Persion wasted not a second to stride within, head high like he was the master of this place. Fysk and Gunnah trailed after him and the Marshal gasped, "How did you do that?!"  
Persion merely smiled under his helm as he said, "I have friends in high places."

Inside the gate they walked down a long tunnel, with holes in the roof where defenders could shoot downwards at intruders. They marched straight into an interior courtyard, ringed by more defenders. Guards lined the upper ramparts, lasrifles pointed downwards but Persion ignored them as the interior doors rolled back, revealing two Primaris Marines standing in the gap, fists covered in blood.

Gunnah jerked to a halt and gasped, "You had men inside the Citadel the whole time?!"  
Smugly Persion explained, "Our tank drivers, it seems the Governor forgot about them. Hail Brother Aspa, Brother Kintar. I see you got my message, is that blood I spy?"

Aspa replied, "The guards were reluctant to obey us, they tried to stop us reaching the controls."  
Kintar added, "Couldn't stop us though."

Persion's response was cut off as Trennan ran onto a rampart, his face flushing with outrage as he shouted, "Intruders! Intruders in the Citadel!"  
Persion glanced up at the lines of men surrounding them and snapped, "They can see that, get me someone with authority."  
Trennan looked like he was going to have a heart attack as he shrieked, "Shoot them, everybody I order you to…"

"Belay that order!" a high-pitched voice yelled, stopping everybody in their tracks. Persion shifted his gaze and saw a small child walking out of the Citadel, passing between the Primaris Marines like they were nothing. It was Otlie Bassail, the Governor's spiteful daughter and Persion was bemused to see the citadel's guards obeying her order. The girl couldn't be more than eight or nine years old but she carried herself like a queen. She was wearing her fatigues and a custom-fitted carapace breastplate and her face was set in a furious glower.

Trennan called out, "My Lady, our Dominus ordered…"  
"Shut it," Otlie barked, "She's not here, I am and I am ordering you to stand down."

The soldiers relented as Persion craned his head downwards and said, "You're in command? You?"  
Otlie glared up at him and snapped, "I seem to be the only one here with any brains. Tell me why you darken my door."

Fysk smiled broadly and spread his hands and said, "Ah, the fair lady, I have heard much of you. Let me…"  
"You open your fat mouth again and I'll have you shot," Otlie hissed then turned to Persion and demanded, "You: explain."

Fysk promptly shut up as Persion lifted his hands to his helm and removed it. He gazed upon the Governor's daughter with his flesh eyes and stated, "Your world has been invaded, alien Genestealers have tainted the populace and seek to overthrow your dynasty. I am here to make sure that doesn't happen. I intend to add my forces to yours."

"About damned time," Otlie growled, "I've been calling for us to do something since this all went to crap."  
Persion cocked his head and asked, "You don't object to letting our forces inside?"  
Otlie replied, "Can they shoot straight? Good, I need every gun I can get. Send them up to the ramparts."

Persion waved Gunnah and Fysk to go back and bring their motley forces inside. Meanwhile he turned to Otlie and asked, "What is the Dominus doing?"  
"Hiding in her safe room," Otlie sneered, "Mother has been crapping herself since Odrin disappeared."

"Odrin's part of this," Persion informed her, "He's a Genestealer Hybrid."  
"Never heard of Genestealers," Otlie muttered, "But they sound like trouble. I've been keeping everybody on alert, expecting an attack."

Persion glanced around and asked, "You are? Surely there is someone more... senior to run the defences?"  
Otlie snorted, "Don't know much about Pascum do you: Caste trumps rank and age. None of these wastrels are high enough in blood to question me. My uncle has turned Traitor, my Brother is catatonic and my mother hides. All she commands is to forbid anyone to leave the Citadel. That leaves me to run things."

Persion found it hard to believe this tiny ball of vitriol could issue orders to hardened soldiers but the Imperium was rife with corrupt institutions and moribund protocols of authority. Stranger things had happened among the worlds of men, so he resolved to deal with the situation head on. He drew in a breath and said, "By coming here I have drawn the enemy's focus to you. They will launch an assault on your walls soon. You must be prepared to withstand a full siege. My Astartes can aid your defence but I will need your men to hold their ground and obey my orders."

Otlie hissed, "This is my command, these men will obey only me."  
Persion snapped back, "This isn't the time to quibble. I don't doubt your courage nor your steel, but you have zero experience in running an army. Your protocols of command and control alone are hopelessly inadequate. I have centuries of combat experience and was gene-forged for battle. If I tell you something needs to be done then you can take that as Imperial writ."

Otlie's eyes narrowed but she allowed, "I'm not foolish enough to ignore an experienced advisor. You can tell me what needs doing and I'll consider it."  
Persion accepted this and said, "First, let us get my force inside and seal that gate. Tell your men the enemy will be here soon, then the bloodletting will begin."

Otlie nodded briskly then turned to the watching lines of men high above and proclaimed, "You heard him: here we stand and here we fight. History will probably dress this up with tales of heroic exploits and fancy speeches but I'll keep this simple for you. The enemy is out there, we're in here. If they get in here we all die. I say we kill them first!"

Persion was impressed by her short speech and as the guards let out a ragged cheer he dared to think that maybe this plan might just work. It better had; if it failed then they were doomed. More times than could be counted an Imperial world had depended upon a handful of men defending a wall and this looked to be such an occasion. His actions in the next few hours would determine all their fates but he took comfort that this was at least a fight he could understand. Everything rested in his hands and for the first time that prospect did not daunt him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 35**

The first they knew of the attack was the impact of an artillery shell on the void shield. It exploded in a brilliant fireball, spreading flames up into the sky. Where it impacted the sky rippled like a disturbed pond, spreading distortions describing a protective dome over the Jade Citadel. Arcane sciences shunted the destructive force harmlessly away and nobody was hurt by the first shell but it sent waves of panic through the motley assortment of humans fearfully clinging to their guns. It didn't help that a moment later another shell impacted, and another and another, a rhythmic barrage that hammered on the citadel like a drum.

Persion gave it only a second's glance as he voxed, "It has begun."

Over the vox waves Marshal Gunnah's monotone drawled, "Idiots, wasting shells pointlessly. That void shield would hold off an orbital bombardment."

Persion muttered, "They're not trying to break it, merely scare us."

"Then it's working," Gunnah muttered, "These wastrels are pissing themselves."

Persion agreed, the crowds of mortals manning the gun blisters looked like they would run away at any moment. The Governor's own guards and the PDF and Fysk's thugs. Persion had distributed their meagre forces throughout the defensive emplacements, adding hundreds of small arms to the heavy weapons stationed throughout. The civilians they had dragged along he had tasked with running water and ammunition to the defenders. He hadn't trusted them to shoot straight so they could fetch and carry, that was all they were good for.

Persion had been busy in the last two hours, he had quickly surveyed the defences and judged them to be surprisingly adequate. Despite its beautiful aesthetic the builders of this place hadn't been totally incompetent. The Imperial-issued void shield rendered the Citadel immune to artillery, aerial bombing, missiles and orbital strikes and the outer wall was strong and reinforced against attack. Only a concentrated barrage of heavy firepower could bring that down. The internal structure beyond was cunningly designed, if the wall was breached the passages and corridors would funnel any invader into one of four internal courtyards, where a defender could make a stand. Persion would have liked to have some Macroweaponry, turbolasers or Plasma Annihaltors would make a real difference, but he might as well wish for a Battlebarge. He would have to make do with what he had.

His vox-bead crackled again and Lieutenant Cibbons called, "Sir, should I bring up the tanks?"

"Negative," Persion voxed, "Hold your Punisher and the two Repulsors in reserve. When this wall falls you will have to deploy to hold the inner courtyards."

Cibbons gulped, "You think it will fall?"

"You think it won't?" Persion scoffed, "This is going to get close and bloody before we spring our trap."

Cibbons fell silent but Gunnah muttered, "I should be out there with you, not babysitting a little girl."

"I need you where you are," Persion rebuffed him, "That girl has put some fire into the wastrels but she has no experience running a siege. I need you to stay in the command bunker and keep things in order. You're far more use organising a proper chain of command than swinging a mace."

It was true, Otlie had done her best to coordinate the defenders but her inexperience was glaring and Pascum's established protocols were archaic. Persion had hastily reorganised the Citadel's chain of command, putting a single man in charge of each quadrant of the wall and laying down a clear line of succession should they die. The rulers of this world had established a weighty and ponderous authority, judging that lower officers couldn't be trusted to make decisions. Against howling protests Persion had chucked that out, telling the cowering mortals that battle was a fluid environment, liable to change faster than a lone commander could process. The man on the spot had to have the authority to make instant decisions, sure and certain that his superiors would back him up and support him when called for.

The Arbites and Space Marines were to act as a flying reserve, meeting the assault where it would hit hardest. Persion knew the coming assault would be ferocious, the Genestealers would have to throw everything they had at these walls to break them open. It didn't help that the fighting in the city was spluttering out, the dregs of the PDF wilting at last. Persion had been skimming their vox channels and it seemed the traitors in their ranks had won the day. The resisting loyalist units had been crushed, isolated or were inside the Citadel. The rest belonged to the Traitors, adding their power to the Genestealer's and united they would crush the last bastion of Imperial Resistance. Persion was counting on it, his trap depended on it.

He was standing on the north wall, looking out over the gate and the plaza beyond. Persion instinctively knew the hammer would fall hardest against this spot. The symbolic value of this position would make it irresistible, which was why he and five Intercessors waited to engage. The Monument to Reunification cast a long shadow over the space, promising utter destruction when it toppled. But Persion had to draw out enough enemies to make it count. He would hold the wall as long as he could, falling back when overwhelmed until Yones sprang the trap. Persion had one last trump card: starfire. The Thunderhawk was circling high above the city, avoiding sporadic lighting fighters that sought to drive it off. If all else should fail he would call in an airstrike, but he really didn't want to do that.

"Movement!" a gunner yelled as he pointed his Lascannon down.

"Hold," Persion snapped, "Don't waste your shots, wait for them to reveal themselves."

He leaned over the parapet as the Intercessors pointed their long bolt rifles at the distant ground. Even at this distance their accuracy would be lethal. Far below the buildings surrounding the plaza filled with furtive movement, then suddenly they exploded with racing bodies. From broken windows and burned out doorways Hybrids emerged in their hundreds, racing forward with quick-paced fleetness of foot. They carried lascarbines and shotguns, perfect assault weapons and many bore grappling hooks at their belts.

"Open fire!" Persion heard Major Trennan, commander of the north quadrant, bellow and the gun blisters unleashed hell. Heavy bolters stuttered as they spat long streams of fire, carving bloody furrows through the racing crowd. Autocannons spat fat shells and missile launchers ejected frag rockets that detonated over their heads, spraying shrapnel everywhere. Small-arms added their fury, lasrifles and slug throwers laying down barrages of firepower that cut down hundreds of attackers. Persion heard bolt rifles barking, each shot a sure kill, as the Intercessors added their wroth.

The Hybrids were hit by the first salvo and hundreds of them were decimated. Torn bodies fell in piles and not one made it to the base of the wall. The cunning design of the walls was to the defender's advantage, funnelling the Genestealers into packed mobs. They were forced to divert around the arrowhead formations covering the gate, caught in a lethal crossfire and it was almost impossible to miss a foe.

Desperate men clung to hammering guns, sweeping their fire back and forth as they prayed they were doing enough. The thunder of guns was added to the screams of the fallen and all the while hammering artillery smote the void shield. The noise and the smell of blood and viscera created a claustrophobic hell of death and destruction. Many men retched at the sight, unaccustomed to the slaughter. Surprisingly Fysk's criminals did not, they at least were used to the sight of blood and guts on the street.

"We're slaughtering them!" came the vox-cry of Otlie Bassail from the central command bunker.

Yet Persion voxed back, "Never underestimate your enemy. This is merely to soften us up. They are spending the lives of their kin to distract us while their real offensive makes ready."

The slaughter would have broken the courage of any man. But the Hybrids were compelled to advance by their Broodmind, their lives forfeit to buy their kin time to set up the true attack. Sure enough from the buildings further back came a flash of light, followed by a dozen lascannon beams. Coherent light smote the outer wall, cracking open gun-blisters and spilling bodies to the ground far below. Persion snarled in frustration, the native rulers had allowed the civilian populace to build far too close to the walls and now he was paying for it. He turned to the lascannon team next to him and snarled, "Target those emplacements and annihilate them."

Hastily the defenders retargeted their weapons and returned fire. Brilliant beams of light shot back and forth as defenders and attackers traded shots, carving the walls with deep furrows and shattering buildings to rubble. Shot after shot went back and forth but the moment of distraction cost the defenders dearly. Persion spied a dark furrow ripple through the surging attackers, still trying to reach the walls, and he spied the chitinous forms of Purestrains galloping forward.

"Brothers, kill the aliens!" he roared and the Intercessors swung their rifles to target them. A flurry of bolt rounds cut apart a handful but three of them reached the wall and flung themselves up it. They scaled it without grapples or ropes, their claws sinking deep and their movements spider-like. They practically ran up the wall and began tearing into the lowest gun-blister, ripping the ferrocrete apart like wet paper.

Persion donned his helm and drew his Friction Axe as he roared, "With me Brothers!"

As he raced down a staircase Otlie voxed, "The assault from the north is too strong, I'm pulling men off the south wall to reinforce you."

"Negative," Persion snapped, "This may be feint to weaken our defences elsewhere."

"But…" Otlie protested.

"Keep them where they are!" Persion snapped, "We'll handle this."

Persion flew down the stairs, racing to the violated post. The walls blurred past then suddenly he was there, only to find a slaughterhouse. Dead men lay strewn over a Heavy bolter, their forms reduced to gory shreds. But Persion had no time to mourn for suddenly a Genestealer was in his face. He had a brief glimpse of claws and fangs then a mad flurry of rending slashes cleaved his breastplate.

Persion flung himself backwards to avoid a killing strike and saw the black-eyed monster leap at him, jaws wide open to reveal yellowing fangs. He forced himself to pivot, meeting a taloned hand with his pauldron. Deep grooves were torn into his armour as the creature hissed in triumph. Persion however smote its torso with a solid punch, throwing it back to gain some space to swing his axe. The Genestealer fell but it instantly flipped over, moving like a spider as it threw itself at him again, mouth wide open and sharp tongue lashing in his face as its talons stabbed for his chest.

Persion cried out as a talon pierced his left flank, where the weaker armour repair paste covered the Ceramite. He felt his blood blow as his body was violated but his pain was drowned out by a surge of righteous anger. This vile alien was a travesty, its form offensive to his eye. It sullied one of the Emperor's worlds with its vile presence and dared to pollute the purity of the human form with its tainted genome. Righteous revulsion and sacred hatred filled Persion and drove his left arm to flash out and grab the Genestealer's tongue.

The Purestrain's eyes' widened in shock as its tongue was snared. It tried to pull back but was helpless to resist as Persion heaved downwards, yanking its head forward to expose the neck. His Friction Axe rose high then fell, cleaving the head from its body. The Purestrain collapsed, missing its skull and Persion tossed the repugnant head out of the gaping hole in the wall. Then he turned to see how the others were faring.

One Genestealer was down, its body pierced by three sets of knives. The other was battling two Intercessors, fighting combat knives with talons and fangs. Before Persion could intervene it drove its talons into the gut of a Primaris Marine, Brother Tanath, letting blood flow freely. The Marine should have staggered and were he Astartes he would have, but he was Primaris and had advantages all his own. Tanath screamed as a surge of aggression-boosters and hyper-stimulants hit his bloodstream, his veins burning hot with the gifts of Belisarius Cawl. He threw himself at the Purestrain in a charge like the impact of a freight train. His knife stabbed and tore as he screamed his outrage, slicing it to pieces as he threw the bleeding corpse back out the hole it had come through.

Persion saw the danger instantly and leapt forward, hand flashing out to grab Tanath's pauldron. The Primaris had raced mindlessly to the hole and thrown the bleeding corpse out but in his mad rush nearly toppled himself. The adrenal surge of the implant was potent but it cost the user control, leaving them a mindless berserker for a brief period of time. Persion caught Tanath at the last instant and heaved him back inside, dragging the Primaris away from a fatal drop.

Tanath was still in the throes of his madness and tried to stab Persion in his frenzy. Yet Persion blocked the arm with his right then his left fist struck Tanath across the faceplate as he barked, "Compose yourself!"

Tanath stepped back in confusion, shaking violently as his Magnificat organ sought to stabilise his mind, and spluttered, "My apologies Brother-Lieutenant. The Furnace… it burns hot."

Persion patted him on the pauldron then turned to the others and ordered, "Secure this position."

The Intercessors raced to cover the hole but Persion voxed, "Command; gun-blister 117 secured. I need a replacement crew to man this position."

"Understood," Otlie voxed back, "Reserves are on their way."

Persion looked out the hole and saw the battle raging. The seething mass of foes had doubled during their brief fight and were pressing up against the walls. Scything flurries of firepower from the arrowhead formations cut down many, only to see them replaced by thrice the number of fallen. Meanwhile heavy weapons traded firepower in barrages of ordnance, shells and lasfire destroying all they touched. The Genestealers were paying in blood for every metre they advanced but they were advancing and they had the numbers to carry the day. Persion took up his bolt pistol and added his shots to the Intercessor's but as he did so his eyes lifted to the Momument to Reunification and he muttered, "You better be in position Yones. We aren't going to hold much longer."


	36. Chapter 36

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 36**

An Intercessor lay face down in the water, blood oozing from the ragged hole in his chest where his hearts had been. His death had been swift and unexpected, and it looked like he would not be the only one to die this day. Around the corpse fighting raged, filling the underground viaduct with the bedlam of battle. Knives cut Chitin as claws smote Ceramite, bolt rounds flashed as shotguns roared. Hellgun fire peppered alien faces as rending claws spilled blood freely. All was madness and carnage and death, indiscriminate and uncaring. Righteous zeal and Xeno ferocity were evenly matched and none could say which would win the day.

In the tight press of filthy flesh and chitin, Manaar hacked and slashed with his phase-blades. The Warp Spider was surrounded by foes on all sides, pouring into the viaduct from numerous dark tunnels lining the route. Manaar has no time to wonder how the Genestealers had found the Imperial party, nor how many of them were closing, all he could do was fight against the rising tide of foes. Each second brought another threat and with every moment the danger multiplied exponentially.

A Hybrid came at Manaar with a whirring pneumatic drill and tried to rip his guts out. Manaar saw the spinning bit coming but he did not retreat, he took a single step and leapt over the point, somersaulting over the Hybrid's dumbfounded head. His phase-blade flickered and the foe's scalp fell off, perfectly bisecting its brain as it collapsed. He landed in a low crouch only to be confronted by a rushing mob of enemies. They came at him in a pack, trying to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. A moment of hesitation would have cost Manaar his life but he knew he would not die at this scum's hands. Fluidly his Deathspinners rose and fired, disgorging packets of mono-molecular threads. A cloud of razor-sharp filaments washed through the mob and they fell in showers of gore, reduced to piles of stinking offal.

He rose and spied the white-clad Apothecary. He was firing a flamer into one of the tunnels, filling it with burning Promethium. He was blocking an entry point, but only one and more enemies were emerging from the others with every second. Manaar watched as a Purestrain tried to sneak up on him but an Intercessor leapt to intervene. His knife struck for the creature's heart but its claws flashed for his neck in return and the pair went down, grappling to the death. The Apothecary spun on his heel and bathed the Purestrain in flames but it was too late, his kinsman was dead already.

Further along the viaduct Eirk was blasting more foes with his Hellgun as he yelled, "There's too many of them!"

Inquisitor Vevara racked a Hybrid with a purple beam from her pistol as she barked, "Keep fighting, we have to break through!"

Mortula swept the head off a burly Hybrid as she barked, "Where the hell are they all coming from?"

Manaar leapt into the fray, his phase-blades tearing and gouging. He tore out eyes and opened arteries with perfect blows, his every motion a display of perfect grace. A heavy pick was swung at his back but he dropped low and it passed over his head, then he rose and opened the wielder from groin to larynx. A bayonet stabbed for his heart but he spun and grabbed the rifle behind the lug, pulling the Hybrid into another, gutting its comrade instead of the Eldar. A pistol was shoved into his face but he backflipped, bringing his boot up to catch the Hybrid under the chin and snap its head back so violently the neck broke. Manaar's display of lethal artistry was a ballet of death, his killing beautiful to behold.

He moved through the throng and found himself next to Sergeant Yones. The towering Primaris was firing his bolt rifle into the crowd as he yelled, "Hold the line, we must break them!"

Manaar fired his Deathspinners into the mass as he cried, "They will not break, it is not in their nature."

Yones smashed a Hybrid down with a roundhouse blow and resumed firing as he snarled, "Neither is it mine. By the Omnissiah if we must slay every last one of them we will!"

Manaar killed relentlessly, scything down an ever-increasing number of enemies. The Imperials were being overwhelmed, no matter how many they put down they could not kill them all. Then Manaar saw an Intercessor, one carrying the heavy sack of demolition charges, get stabbed in the back. Manaar expected him to fall to his knees but the Marine screamed in a mad frenzy, throwing himself into the packed mass of foes in a berserk charge. He put his head down and rammed himself into the crowded enemies, bowling them over with his massive bulk. He disappeared into the scrum, drowning in enemies but his last act had knocked the enemy back a pace, leaving them reeling.

"This is our chance," Yones declaimed, "Give them everything you've got!" He let rip with his bolt rifle, blasting enemies with relentless fury. The rest of them joined him, energy, las, bolts and flames decimating everything in sight.

Manaar added his wroth, blowing Hybrids into chunks with a succession of quick shots as he declared, "Khaine's fury take them!"

The Apothecary advanced step by step, swathing the enemy in flames as he bellowed, "No mercy!"

Vevara racked a Purestrain with ravening energy as she shouted, "For the Golden Throne!"

The Hybrids reeled before the onslaught, falling in droves before the Imperial's fury. Righteous fury set against alien aggression. The battle hung on a knife's edge and Manaar knew the slightest thing could turn it either way. For a moment it looked as if the tide might turn but then there was an almighty roar, the sound of a hundred throats crying out in feral rage and a second wave of Genestealers came racing down the length of the viaduct. They came in a wave of scaled flesh and black eyes, charging with angry roars and spittle flying from their lips. Burly Hybrids ran in coarse leathers, clutching mining picks and pneumatic drills in their filthy hands while Purestrains raced along like mastiffs, using all six limbs to bound ahead of their lesser kin.

Manaar looked upon the enemy and knew this was an attack they could not withstand, not with their diminished band and to confront this wave was to die. It seemed the Mon-Keigh shared his revelation, for Yones yelled, "Fallback! Everybody fallback!" He matched deeds to words, diving towards one of the few tunnels that enemies weren't blocking as he fired his bolt rifle into the oncoming wave. Manaar instantly saw the Sergeant was cut off from the rest of the retinue by the mass of enemies, as was the Aspect Warrior. Immediately the Warp Spider threw himself after the Sergeant, vaulting over his head in a graceful leap to land in the tunnel beyond. He spun about and saw the Inquisitorial retinue falling back into another tunnel, accompanied by one lone surviving Intercessor. They were walking backwards, firing into a wall of flesh and chitin that chased them. There would be no help coming from that direction.

One soul had not retreated, the white-clad Apothecary. He was holding the line, bathing the foe in gouts of burning Promethium as he roared his fury. Manaar saw he could have turned and run with his kin, but had elected not to, standing his ground to delay the enemy for a few precious seconds. He refused to retreat, even in the face of utter defeat, selling his life to buy time for his comrades to escape.

"Memnos!" Yones bellowed as he unhooked a melta bomb from his hip.

"Go you fools!" Memnos shouted as he swept his flamer across the oncoming enemy, "Go now!"

Manaar sensed Yones' reluctance to leave but he threw the melta bomb anyway and the flat disc slapped to the tunnel roof and began to beep. Immediately the pair of them turned to run, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the imminent collapse. Scores of Genestealers chased them, seeking to prevent their escape. Four, five, six steps they took then the charge detonated with a dull crump, melting the roof with sub-fusion fire. Ferrocrete glowed and ran like wax, then it fell in a shower of red-hot rock. Thunder rumbled and a cloud of dust enveloped Manaar, blinding him utterly. He ran through the dark, hearing rocks slam down behind him, burying the enemy in tons of debris.

Through the cloying fog he ran, then suddenly burst out into clear air. Finding Yones standing with his bolt rifle pointed back the way they had come. The thin beam of the stablight on the rifle illuminated gritty particles hanging in the air, showing how thick the debris had been. Manaar spun about and presented his Deathspinners but all he found was a pile of rubble blocking the tunnel. Nothing could come through that, but equally they could not return that way either.

Yones lowered his rifle and snarled, "Grit in the Cog, we won't be going back that way."

Manaar cocked his head and asked, "We retreat?"

Yones shook his head and said, "No, we still have a mission to complete."

"Yes," Manaar agreed, "We must continue."

Yones turned to face the darkness of the tunnel and began to march away. Manaar followed him, feeling the ground start to drop beneath his feet as they walked. The Space Marine set a furious pace but the Aspect Warrior easily kept up, feeling water splashing under his feet as they moved. The smell grew more rancid as they descended, filled with manure and animal scents, making his nose wrinkle. The Space Marine didn't notice, or chose not to admit his discomfort, as he walked proudly onwards.

Manaar glanced up at him and commented, "Your comrades are dead."

Yones sighed, "I barely knew them, they had only just been taken from their stasis tubes. By the Red Sands I swear they shall be avenged, I owe them that at least."

Manaar cared not for his bluster so questioned, "The others, will they find us?"

"Doubtful," Yones admitted, "It's just you and me. Unbelievable: a Space Marine and an Eldar working together. On Mars they'd have converted us into servitors for merely suggesting such a thing."

"Yes," Manaar agreed, "We are on our own."

Their conversation was brought to a halt as the tunnel abruptly ended. They emerged into a vast underground space, echoing with the volume of the interior. It was hundreds of metres long and almost as wide, with a roof one would have to crane backwards to see. Lit by the single beam of Yones' stablight the interior was revealed to be filled with pillars, each thrice as wide as an Eldar was tall and they soared up to the roof, bearing its immense weight. The floor was covered knee-deep by fetid water, and the walls dripped with moisture. There was something else, a sense of watchful threat lurking in the darkness, the hungry gleam of a predator.

"What is this?" Manaar asked.

"A storm-drain chamber," Yones explained, "To catch excess floodwater."

"We're not alone," Manaar sniffed, "Animals watch us."

Yones took a step forward and stated, "Crotalids, we were warned they were down here. We have to be careful, they can be dangerous…"

He didn't get to finish speaking for suddenly and without warning Manaar brought up his Deathspinners and fired them at the Primaris' back. Mono-molecular packets of thread disgorged from the weapons, unspooling in the air to form clouds of razor-sharp filaments. Were he only human Yones would have died instantly, but he was not, he was Transhuman and from the corner of his eye he saw the movement and threw himself aside with impossible speed. The clouds merely clipped Yones' flank, tearing through Ceramite to leave a bleeding but non-lethal wound.

The Intercessor roared in outrage and swung his fist about, trying to smash Manaar's head in but the Warp Spider had already displaced. He leapt vertically, making the water splash high as he flew to a pillar and clung to its surface. A click of a bolt rifle heralded a shot at his back but Manaar had already hurled himself away, flying to the next pillar as the round blew a crater into the column he had just been perched on. He wasted not a second to scuttle round the column, using its bulk for cover as he vanished into the dark.

Yones was left bleeding in the water, jerking his rifle back and forth as he cried, "What are you doing?! We are allies!"

From the darkness Manaar's voice echoed, "You were never my ally. You are the prey I came to this world to kill."


	37. Chapter 37

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 37**

A bolt round nearly blew out his spine as it ricocheted off his armour. The flexible weave hardened on impact, spreading the force of the shot across its surface, but the shock still reverberated through Manaar. He was forced to relocate instantly as another shot flew for his head, leaping to the next pillar in a bid to evade death. Speed was his only ally in this fight, his ability to soar over the lumbering Mon-Keigh keeping him from dying in failure.

Below him Sergeant Yones snarled in frustration, trying to track the Warp Spider as he vanished into the darkness. The Primaris kept his bolt rifle high, stablight penetrating the darkness as he chased the Eldar. His boots kicked up sprays of dank water as he waded through the swampy filth, uncaring for the dishonour to his heraldry. His side was running with genhanced blood but the flow was slowing, a thick crust of artificial scar tissue forming to stem the loss. Still drops of vital fluid touched the water and provoked angry growls from the darkness, the noise of hungry predators scenting fresh blood.

Manaar gave them no heed as he scuttled around a pillar, keeping its bulk between him and the Primaris. He had to admit this wasn't going the way he had expected, he had hoped to end this fight in one shot but the target was proving irritatingly difficult to eliminate. Still Manaar wasn't about to give up, he had crossed the stars and lived among primitives to reach this one individual. Manaar's Warp Spider mindset knew no doubt that he would triumph, then he would claim this one's annoying head as a trophy, to complete the humiliation.

Yones was peering around a different pillar, sending his stablight off in the wrong direction as he roared, "Come out and face me Xeno scum!" Manaar knew it was a feeble ploy to entice him to reveal his position but refused to play that game. He crept around the pillar, clinging to it with fingers and toes, then tensed before leaping across the distance to the next. As he flew overhead his Deathspinners let loose a salvo, intending to eviscerate the Primaris from behind. Sadly the Space Marine's reactions equalled an Eldar's, Yones hurled himself sideways and evaded the blast as his bolt rifle tracked and fired a shot.

Manaar felt the round pass within an inch of his hide, the breath of the wind setting his skin tingling. He touched the pillar and bounded off it, sailing to the next and the next, disappearing into the darkness beyond. As he evaded he cursed the dead gods, this was proving far too hard. He had killed Astartes before and they hadn't been this much trouble. It seemed the boasts of a new Paradigm of Transhuman were not hollow. After ten millennia of moribund decay the empire of the Corpse God had actually produced something new.

Suddenly there was a swirling motion in the water below as something large and scaly reared up and snapped at him. A long snout and reptilian eyes burst from the water, snapping at the air beneath his feet. Had Manaar been in the water he would have been ensnared and dragged down by those gnashing teeth and as it was they snapped closed inches below his feet. Manaar touched the next pillar and ran up its length to safety, then turned and looked down. In the water a huge Crotalid sank back into the water, the top of its head floating on the surface like a sunken log. Several more closed in, drawn by the commotion, their watchful eyes tracking his every movement.

The sight gave Manaar an idea and he grinned as he shifted position, putting the reptiles between him and the lumbering Primaris. Manaar opened his mouth and called out, "Foolish Mon-Keigh, to think you can match me."

There was a sharp noise as Yones turned to follow the voice and the beam of his stablight drew nearer as the Primaris snarled, "Persion and Jediah were right about you, aliens are not to be trusted."

Manaar shifted around the pillar for cover as he mocked, "You should have listened to your comrades, they are wiser in the ways of the galaxy."

"Red Sands," Yones cursed, "I defended you. I told the rest you weren't a threat, not on your own."

"Then you are a blind fool," Manaar sneered, "There is no peace between races, no comradeship with other species. Among the stars, there is only war."

Yones was nearing his location as the Space Marine called out, "I should have known it: you're working with the Genestealers. You want Pascum to fall into their clutches!"

That actually made Manaar laugh, "You think I care for this planet's allegiance, you think I care for the lives of Mon-Keigh? You primitive ape, this world is nothing to the Eldar. The fate of one planet of barbarians is meaningless in the grand scheme of things. I am here for you and you alone. Your existence imbalances the Skein and the disruption must be removed, this is fated."

Yones was only a pillar away, his light blazing as he snarled, "You came all this way for me?! Then you should have killed me on sight. When we first met in that ballroom you should have struck me down."

Manaar replied coldly, "Had you been alone I would have. Unfortunately your comrades blundered into my way. That clown with the axe and your bitter healer blocked my opportunity. I knew I could not defeat three of your kind all at once, I had to wait until I could get you alone and isolated."

Yones was mere feet away and he burst around a pillar, rifle held high to kill Manaar in one shot. The Primaris was quick and certain and he almost made it. Yet as he stepped out of the shadows the waters erupted as a massive Crotalid rose and attacked him. Yones spun about with Transhuman speed and tried to shoot its brains out, but massive jaws slammed down on his right arm and bit through Ceramite and reinforced bone like they were gossamer. Yones' arm was torn clean off and his rifle went spinning away, landing barrel up against a pillar, shining light upwards to illuminate the scene.

Transhuman blood sprayed out of the stump of Yones' arm and he roared in outrage but he was barely slowed as his left hand snatched a knife from his belt and stabbed the Crotalid through the eye. Black blood mixed with his own and the sight made Manaar smile, for the scent sent nearby reptiles into a feeding frenzy. Crotalids swam from all directions and set upon the beleaguered Marine. Snapping jaws cleaved his armour and lashing tails battered him as he desperately fought for his life. His knife hacked and stabbed reptilian hides but to no avail as they smothered him in flesh.

"Treachery!" Yones shouted, "You shall pay for this perfidy!" Yet the odds were too great and he was pulled under the water, disappearing in a scrum of scales and teeth. The water ran red with blood and guts as warm entrails spilled free and the Crotalids roared as they dove into the water, fighting over choice scraps of flesh. Manaar watched from on high as the pack feasted well, gobbling down fresh meat and then it was over.

Silence fell at last and the waters grew still. Manaar hung to the pillar for long moments, counting the passing of seconds. He could sense no sign of life but he remained wary, he knew the Space Marines were tougher than they had any right to be and many a foolish Eldar had died to a supposedly defeated Mon-Keigh. His eyes scoured the waters, looking for any hint of his prey, but he saw only the satisfied form of Crotalids in the wan illumination cast by the dropped stablight.

A swish of motion drew his eye and he saw a head floating in the water, the rounded shape barely visible in the gloom. Manaar felt the flush of victory run through him. The deed had been done and the Skein righted; the future of Furta-Rith had been assured with this death. He had spoken the truth when he said this planet was of no consequence, the salvation or destruction of this world making no difference to his people. The death of a billion humans counted for nothing when set against a single Eldar life. Humans were a lesser race, of little import in the scope of the universe. This was what the Mon-Keigh could never grasp; the galaxy revolved upon the actions lone individuals, while the deaths of billions of others changed nothing. Yones had been such an individual, his existence upsetting the weft of destiny, an impediment now removed. All that remained was to claim a trophy and depart, such a fight as this needed commemoration.

Manaar let go of the pillar and dropped into the blood-soaked water with barely a splash. He moved silently to claim his prize, warily stepping around dozing Crotalids. Thankfully the beasts seemed stupefied by their feast and they ignored him. Manaar delicately scooped the helmet up in one hand and examined the Ceramite. The shape of the helm was odd, a new design that differed from those the Space Marines had used for ten millennia. It had availed the Mon-Keigh not, for he had fallen to the superior cunning of the Eldar. Manaar turned the helm upright to gaze into the blank eyes… and that was when he realised the helm did not contain a head. It was empty.

The waters next to the Warp Spider exploded as a Crotalid burst upwards, no, the corpse of a Crotalid. It had been slit open from neck to groin, its spilt guts the meat others of its kind had consumed. The gutted form had been laid over Yones' head and shoulders like a cloak, a crude camouflage to disguise the Primaris' survival. Yones threw it aside as he burst from the water, mere inches from Manaar. His helm was missing, revealing a face filled with brutal rage and crazed, animalistic savagery that made him resemble an Ork. His right arm ended above the elbow but his left drove forward like a piledriver and snatched Manaar around the throat.

Manaar's surprise was total and he had no time to react as a vice closed around his throat, lifting him out of the water. The Warp Spider struggled for air as his phase-blades scored over ceramite but the angle was poor and he could barely draw drops of blood from his enemy. Manaar brought up his Deathspinners but Yones wasn't done. The Space Marine's legs pounded through the water, sending plumes of water into the air as he drove Manaar backwards, slamming him into a pillar with bone-shaking force.

Despite the flexing of his Aspect armour Manaar's teeth rattled in his skull as Yones bellowed, "Treacherous Xeno filth!"

Manaar couldn't breathe, he couldn't fight and was helpless to resist as Yones heaved him forward then slammed him into the pillar again roaring, "Hate the Alien!"

Star's flashed in Manaar's head and his ribs screamed as he was slammed into the pillar again with a cry of, "Fear the Alien!"

Manaar's world was going black as oxygen deprivation sank into his brain, he could barely feel himself being drawn forward once more as Yones screamed, "Kill the Alien!"

Manaar's vision had shrunk to a pinprick and he knew the Space Marine would continue until he was reduced to a bloody rag. Nothing could stop it, not the Warp Spider's weapons, nor his skill, nor his cunning. The Space Marine had the advantages of strength and mass, he had the edge in height and reach. Yones was driven by feral anger and relentless determination and lived in the sure and certain knowledge that his every action was endorsed by his corpse god. Such self-righteousness could not be daunted, intimidated or dissuaded. Yet despite all that Manaar had something the Space Marine didn't: he was a Warp Spider.

A single psychic impulse triggered the teleporter on his back and unlight engulfed the pair as they vanished into the Empyrean. Yones had Manaar by the throat and so was dragged into the Immaterium with the Warp Spider, both of them skimming across the surface of the Ether for a single heartbeat. Manaar felt the grip on this throat closing, and knew he could not shake it off; there would be no leaving his rival here for Daemons to feast upon. Yet Manaar had other options and his purpose was unwavering as he reached his destination and dropped the pair back into realspace.

Silence and darkness greeted him, a still nothingness that stunned him with the sudden absence of noise. Yet he was alive, he knew that because the vice on his larynx was easing as the grip on his throat slowly slackened. He forced his eyes to focus and beheld Yones. The Primaris was before him, his expression slack and vacant on the half of his face that was visible. The left side of his head remained as it had been but the rest was missing, buried in the solid Ferrocrete of a pillar. The Primaris had emerged from the teleport half-buried in one of the columns, the atoms of his body fused with the matter of the stone. From the crown of his head, down his chin to his jaw and onto his chest there was only stone to the right side of him. All that remained was half a head, a bit of his torso and his left arm and shoulder, sticking out of a stone pillar like a narwhal rising from an ocean swell.

Manaar reached up and loosened Yones' fingers one by one, then dropped to the water with a weak buckling of his knees. He looked up at the dead Marine and rubbed his sore throat, feeling how close he had come to death. The Space Marine's life had been ended; there could be no doubt about it. The lifeless remains of Yones would remain forever embedded in the Ferrocrete, nothing could ever separate the atoms from each other, while the exposed half would rot. This time Manaar's kill was certain, but he did not feel triumphant. He had come too close to losing this fight and that knowledge left him cold.

No longer desiring to claim a trophy Manaar turned his back on the deceased and walked away. He swore to leave this world at the first opportunity and never return. His violent emotions had been satiated and he longed to return to the Craftworld and the bosom company of his own kind. Yes, the sooner he left this planet the better. With that thought he departed, leaving Yones' stiff corpse behind in its eternal tomb where no one would ever find it.


	38. Chapter 38

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 38**

A Purestrain rose over the parapet, scaling the rampart like it was nothing. Its ridged alien skull gleamed in the dim red light and its teeth were razor sharp. In those black eyes was no trace of humanity, no compassion, no mercy, only the will to slay and corrupt. It hissed threateningly as its eyes took in the top of the wall, preparing to leap upon the defenders and lay waste to all it found. But its ambition was cut short as a burning Friction Axe tore its skull apart, cleaving the top off and sending the creature toppling back to the ground.

Persion saw the Genestealer fall but he had no time to celebrate, for scores more were pouring over the ramparts. He saw Purestrains racing up the wall like it was nothing, their rending claws making short work of the ascent. Barely slower were a wave of misshapen Hybrids, their hands and feet bound with hooked crampons so they could follow in their kin's wake. Set against them a thin line of humans and Space Marines fought to hold back the tide, repulsing the assault with all their courage. They were defending the top of the wall and the Heavy Weapon teams emplaced there, knowing those guns were the only thing keeping the Genestealers from overwhelming the defence of the Citadel.

Heavy bolters hammered into the packed mass, while missile launchers, autocannons and Lascannons added what firepower they could. Long trails of carnage were swept into the milling crowd but it was like firing into the sea, the swarming hordes merely closed over the gaps, trampling their wounded to death as they did so. Further down gun-blisters still fired into the swarming horde pressing up against the wall but their number was diminishing. Too many had been torn open by the claws of Purestrains, reducing the defence one gun at a time. And all the while more shots flew from the nearby buildings, the Hybrids setting off single shots and then relocating before the defenders could target them. They had learned to be wary of the human's guns.

Persion knew brave men were dying in the passages and chambers buried into the wall, fighting to hold the genestealers at bay but he could not help them. He was leading the defence of the top and could not spare a single Marine to aid them. He felt the wall shivering in a worrying fashion beneath his feet and grew concerned that its integrity was failing but neither could he do anything about that. All he could do was fight.

Persion stepped past a battling Intercessor and cleaved a Purestrain in half from behind. The Genestealer was about to gut Sergeant Zeax, whose Devastators were firing ceaselessly over the parapet. The Purestrain fell in two pieces but Zeax only barked, "I had it."

"Course you did," Persion mocked, "You can have the next one."

Zeax muttered something under his breath but he swung his Thunder Hammer in a high arc and brought it down on the skull of the next Purestrain to loom over the parapet. Brains sprayed everywhere as the energised weapon smote the skull and it fell away. A Hybrid climbed over the wall next to it but Zeax swept it off the wall with a lateral strike and the next he bashed in the face with his redoubtable Storm Shield.

Persion joined him in slaughtering the Genestealers, claiming an ever-increasing tally of kills and he cried, "Does this remind you of the stand of the Primarch's Own against Vorshaan?"

"No," Zeax snarled as he crushed skulls, "It really doesn't. Vorshaan was an egotistical fool, this filth is damned good."

It was hard to argue with that assessment, for the defenders were falling in great number. Torn and bloodied bodies lay strewn upon the floor, their dead eyes staring at the shimmering void shield. The cries and pleading of the wounded were drowned out by the hammering of weapons, the rage of the combatants and the never-ending booming of artillery striking the void shield. The Genestealer's assault was grinding down the defence inch by inch and was it not for the presence of the Astartes the wall would surely have fallen already.

Persion knew he needed more soldiers and voxed, "Major Trennan, we need more men up here."

The vox crackled and Otlie's voice came back, "Trennan's dead and we have no more souls to spare. The assault has spread to all quadrants, we're besieged on all sides."

Zeax continued to fight as he barked, "Warp Hells, how many Genestealers are there on this worthless planet?"

"Too many," Persion snarled as he punched a Hybrid away and called, "Get me the next in command."

Otlie replied, "He's dead too, they all are. You're the only officer left on the north wall."

Persion snapped, "Then tell everybody I'm taking direct command and…"

He didn't get to finish his sentence for a pair of Purestrains bounded over the parapet. The first he smote in the heart with his axe but the other lashed out with its rending claws, tearing through his left arm to leave bloody trails. Persion snarled as he felt his blood flow but he closed his mind to the pain and swung his axe at the creature. His swing was stopped as it raised two hands and caught his wrist, keeping his arm still and preventing the killing blow from falling. Its eyes glittered mockingly but it was cruelly surprised when Persion's injured arm grabbed his bolt pistol. Despite screaming agony Persion willed his arm to rise and then he shot the Purestrain in the face.

The Genestealer collapsed without a head as Persion gritted his teeth against the searing pain in his arm. Zeax was next to him, either not noticing the wound or not caring, as he barked, "When the hell is that Monument going to fall?!"

Persion forced his pain aside as he saw the towering Monument to Reunification standing pristine against the skyline. His plan had been to bring it down on the Genestealer's heads but it showed no sign of falling. Persion took up his axe as he spat, "Yones is behind schedule."

"You think something happened to them?" Zeax growled.

"Better not have," Persion hissed, "We need them to spring the trap."

More foes were cresting the wall, only to be met by the indomitable courage of the Space Marines. Intercessors and Devastators forming a bulwark of blue Ceramite. Persion's arm ached from his wounding but he persevered, hacking down Hybrids as fast as he was able. He knew they could not hold this line forever but he would not relent, he would stand his ground so long as there was ground to be held. Behind him the Astartes battled on, striking down enemies as fast as they presented themselves. The shining wall of Ceramite was set against the talons and knives of the alien and it did not break. Persion saw his Brothers waging war as it was meant to be waged, hard, fast and cruel. They dispatched foes with exacting surety and ruthless determination, killing the foe utterly then moving on to the next without pause.

The Storm Heralds were wreaking havoc but suddenly Zeax lifted his hammer and cried, "Look, mechanised armour approaches!"

Persion's head snapped about and he stared into the sea of foes washing up against the wall as he snarled, "No. Warp Hells no, not that."

Behind the line of buildings smoke and dust arose, the unmistakable sign of tracked vehicles moving through an urban environment. Persion could see shadows looming around the corners of the nearest buildings and even through the din of battle he could make out the noise of engines growling, STC-promethium engines. Looted PDF machines or outright Traitors, it mattered not. Such a force could turn this battle on its head and Persion knew that the Citadel was stretched to the limit holding off the attackers swarming up its walls. Another wave could break them.

Persion opened his vox and called, "Otlie, enemy armour approaches from the North."

The vox crackled as Otlie called, "Repeat that? Did you say armour?"

"Confirmed," Persion called, "For Throne's sake tell me the Pascum PDF doesn't have any Baneblades."

"Baneblades?" Otlie replied, "No, no super heavies… but they had Demolishers and Thunderer siege tanks in spades."

Sure enough around the buildings came a line of tanks, grinding along on caterpillar tracks. Each of them had thick armour plates and smoking engines, their growling machinery audible even of the din of battle. Their hulls were drab brown and they bore marks of the PDF, though with their hatches secured it was impossible to determine if they were crewed by Hybrids or Traitors. It hardly mattered, their intent was obvious, they were here to break open the Citadel, a feat they were well capable of achieving. They were variants of standard designs, with their primary weapons removed in favour of wide-bore Demolisher cannons. Proud Leman Russ hulls had their turrets expanded to take the bulky weapons while the Thunderers were refitted tank destroyers, bulky and awkward in form but utterly lethal at short range.

Persion saw twenty tanks rolling into the plaza, the Genestealers parting before them like a wave. His guts clenched at the sight but his voice cried out, "Heavy weapons, target those tanks!" There was a momentary pause as the heavy weapon crews shifted their aim then a flurry of Lascannon beams, autocannon rounds and missiles flew from the gatehouses and smote the tanks. Las-energy tore into hulls, shells cracked open armour and Krak missiles punched into crew compartments. The salvo would have broken a hundred lighter vehicles, but sadly these were siege specialists, boasting reinforced armour for urban warfare.

Persion saw their blows bring four tanks to a halt, spewing smoke from their sundered forms but the rest pushed on, drawing into range as their barrels elevated. "Brace!" Persion cried as the barrels fixed upon a single position, then as one the tanks fired. Thunder rolled as sixteen Demolisher cannons let loose their fury, sending fat shells sailing high. The tanks did not target the gates themselves, those Adamantium barricades proof against almost anything, but instead targeted the wall beyond the gatehouses.

The shells stuck the wall and burrowed into its mass before detonating, exploding with earth-shattering force. Broken masonry soared into the sky as flames wormed into the barrier. Violent vibrations ran through the length of the wall, spreading gagged cracks through its outer surface in a spider web of calamity. Persion staggered as the wall quaked beneath his feet, shaking like an aquatic vessel in an ocean swell and he saw the damage mounting. Gun-blisters had been shorn free, spilling bodies and weapons to the ground, men were thrown to their feet and the screams of the dying filled the air with pain and terror.

"Damnation," Zeax swore, "That was too much."

"They're just getting warmed up," Persion snarled, "Everybody target those tanks, hurry before they can fire again!"

Shaking hands trained weapons on the tanks and let off another salvo as they sought to reload. This time the barrage was feebler, poorly aimed and sporadic. A lone lascannon shot sheared a turret off a demolisher tank, leaving it squatting with no head in the road. A lucky missile punched into a Thunderer, setting off its cargo of shells in a blazing fireball that spread an inferno over nearby Hybrids. Two more tanks were dead but it was not enough and the fourteen remaining tanks made ready and let loose their fury once more. Persion was almost thrown from his feet as the wall quivered like a new-born colt, spilling shattered stone in a waterfall of broken masonry. He knew they could not withstand another barrage like that and roared, "Fire, for Throne's sake somebody fire!"

A last desperate volley fell but the Tanks rebuffed it with ease. Their looming forms shrugging off the defender's feeble efforts. Their barrels gaped like dragons' maws, promising utter destruction and their smoking engines were as the breath of monsters. Then they fired one last time and Persion's world collapsed.

The wall under his feet fell away and he tumbled down with it. Stone and grit battered his armour as he sank into a shower of falling rock. He could not see anything, or hear anybody else. All he knew was the crushing weight of stone slamming into him as he was taken by an avalanche of Ferrocrete. A final rock slammed into his helm, cracking the Ceramite, then it stopped.

Persion felt himself being squeezed on all sides, but the weight on him was slight and he knew he was not buried too deeply. He managed to shift his arm and felt it move freely through the air. Hastily he reached up and pulled loose rock off his body, unburying himself as fast as he was able. Swiftly he freed his other arm, then it was quick work to break loose of his prison and heave himself out of the hole.

He swayed to his feet, relieved to see he had managed to keep hold of his Friction Axe through the fall. He did not enjoy the prospect flagellating himself with barbed lashes should he dishonour his wargear by dropping it. He shook off the dust from his body then looked up. What he beheld was a slope of loose stone and grit, forming a chasm into the bulk of the wall. To either side the high ramparts still soared but for a span of fifty metres there was only shattered rock and pulverised stone, forming a perfect ramp into the heart of the Citadel. Persion spied the remains of many mortals in that debris, bloody smears of flesh and bone that had been brave defenders mere moments before. Of his Brothers there was no sign, he was alone.

Suddenly there was an immense roar of triumph and Persion spun about to see the throng of Genestealers pushing forward. They raced through the fire of the defenders, still coming from either side, braving the onslaught to reach the foot of the ramp. Hundreds of them were mowed down but more pushed through, knowing that they had clear and unobstructed access to the heart of the defences.

Hundreds of Hybrids ran with weapons in hand, next to bounding Purestrains with black eyes and razor-sharp talons. All that stood in their way was one Space Marine, armed with nothing but an axe and a pistol. Persion faced the oncoming horde and knew to stand against them was to die but he lifted his axe and braced his feet as he growled, "Come on then alien scum, let us walk the road to hell together."


	39. Chapter 39

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 39**

The sound of battle echoed over the city. The embattled PDF units that hadn't turned traitor heard the thunder as they clung to their guns amid burnt-out ruins of factorums. The few civilians who hadn't fled heard it as they cowered in attics and basements, parents telling hollow lies to assuage children's tears. It was heard by Magus Tyvis in her lair, who basked in the knowledge that the last bastion of Imperial resistance was about to fall. And it was heard by Manaar.

The Warp Spider was currently hanging upside down from a girder. It was one of a thousand thick support beams that held aloft a landing apron for starships. The plate was three kilometres long and almost as wide, standing fifty metres off the ground so immense baffles and mass-distribution systems could bear the weight of the colossal vessel. There were a dozen such plates in the starport outside the city limits, each supporting the mass of a warp-capable cargo vessel. Arcane systems whose mysteries had long been lost to the understanding of the Imperium bore the weight without a hint of strain. While mindless servitors continued their daily routine, oblivious to the changes made to their surroundings.

The Warp Spider was in a sorry state, his armour was stained and battered by the fight against the Space Marine. His body was hardly any better, aching all over and his ribs throbbed painfully with every breath. The killing of Yones had been a hard fight, far tougher than he had anticipated and he bore his wounds with resentful scorn. His spirit was shaken by these events and he couldn't even take pleasure in the kill, the Space Marine had robbed him of that. It should have been a triumph to savour but the cold chill of knowing he had almost lost stole Manaar's joy, leaving him only with the urge to leave this place as fast as possible. So he forgot Yones' defeat and looked about, seeking his means of departure.

Among the girders and humming machinery his eyes beheld bodies laying in pieces. They hung from the beams like grizzly tapestries and piled up on the ground in thoughtless displays of crude violence. Many had been shot in the back as they sought to run, left where they had dropped but that was only the start. Guts had been opened, heads torn off and beating hearts ripped from chests, leaving a gory vista of death. This was not Manaar's work; the Genestealers had done this in the first hour of the uprising. The Starport was a critical lynchpin of Pascum's infrastructure and its capture had been a high priority. The Cult had attacked with overwhelming force, killing all they found and then sweeping off to join the assault on the Citadel.

Manaar looked over the scene and was satisfied that he was not being observed. He twisted about and dropped lightly from the girder, falling fifty metres without qualm to land so lightly he didn't even make a sound. The Warp Spider looked over the Mon-Keigh corpses and let slip a hiss of frustration. He had come to the starport seeking some means of departing Pascum and for that he needed someone alive. Sadly the Webway did not reach this planet; the only portal in the stellar system was tethered to that dead planetoid in the outer reaches. Manaar's warp-jump pack couldn't take him that far; even the Eldar's mastery of teleportation couldn't carry one clear across a Stellar system.

The Warp Spider glanced upwards and surveyed the vast cargo ships looming overhead. They were immense bastions of metal, fitted with engines and armour heavy enough to crush a city block. Manaar was well aware these were but minnows in void terms; only the most advanced Capital ships could enter a planet's atmosphere, something the Imperium had long lost the ability to build. Even so these ships were well beyond his means, requiring thousands of crewmen and officers to operate. They would never serve his ends; he would have to look elsewhere.

Manaar turned his back on the cargo ships and walked towards the edge of the starport, where smaller ships lay. As he walked he was gifted a view of the Jade Citadel and the battle raging around it. Even from this distance he could see the flaring void shield and hear the rumble of artillery and shooting. The Genestealer cult had amassed the bulk of its forces and laid siege to that bastion, exactly as the Space Marines had planned. Yet Manaar knew something they didn't: the trap would never be sprung. The team sent to bring it down were scattered or dead and the explosives were lost. Their scheme had failed.

A strange impulse made Manaar pause in his step. He frowned under his helm as he felt an inexplicable emotion rise, a hint of regret and sadness. From nowhere the thought arose that it wasn't too late, he knew where the explosives were buried and in which direction his teammates had fled. He could go back, a small voice urged, he could retrieve the charges and find his comrades. They didn't know how Yones had died, he could make up whatever story he wanted. Manaar could save them, he could save this world. Manaar could yet change the course of this war.

The Warp Spider was baffled by this impulse; it was not part of his Path to second-guess himself. Then he realised it wasn't his warrior Aspect speaking, it was his feebler and insipid half, its callow emotions seeping out from behind the mental walls that divided his being. The fight must have shaken him worse than he thought, disturbing his mental disciplines to allow his weaker half to surface. The Warp Spider was shocked to realise his other half had developed an attachment to the Mon-keigh, not as one would for an equal naturally, but rather as one would for a loyal pet. Manaar's artistic aspect wanted to go back, to save the Inquisitor and her retinue and play the hero.

It was a compelling urge but pointless, the Warp Spider half of his soul remained dominant and it laughed at the notion of risking an Eldar life for the benefit of Mon-Keigh. They were lesser creatures, the Warp Spider avowed, he owed them nothing. Manaar's mission had been for the benefit of Furta-Rith, nobody else. Let the apes die, let this world burn, nothing on this planet held any significance to the Eldar race anymore. He had achieved his goal and resolved he would leave this world as soon as possible. The Mon-Keigh could rot for all he cared.

He walked onwards, but a tiny whisper lingered, "What of Eirk? The others were pathetic wretches but he was a loyal comrade." The Warp Spider merely shrugged off the idea, one Mon-Keigh or a billion, it made no difference. The life of an Eldar was worth far more than any number of these apes. Farseers could and routinely did send billions of them to die to prevent some future tragedy overtaking the Eldar race. The Farseers plucked the strands of destiny, manipulating the Skein to manoeuvre lesser races to suit their ends. Mon-Keigh beyond counting and been sacrificed over the millennia, blithely unaware of their dooms approaching and who had placed it upon them.

Manaar heard a scuffle from ahead and froze as he sank into a crouch. His feeble half retreated, leaving the Warp Spider alone in their mindscape. That was good, he would need no doubts or indecision to weigh his arms down should he be required to fight. Ahead lay a Ferrocrete apron, carrying shuttles and orbital lighters in straight rows. These were useless to Manaar; primitive chemical-powered lifters, only rated to achieve orbit. Even the largest of them would barely reach a nearby moon. To traverse the stellar system to its edges would take these craft years, if not decades.

Yet at the very end of the row sat a different sort of vessel. It was larger and bulkier, five stories tall and with a blunted bow over which rose a small bridge. Its hide bore the marks of deep space radiation and the gargoyles sat along its flanks were flash scorched by re-entry burns. Most importantly it had a small plasma drive on its rear, the Imperial's favoured means of interplanetary transit. It was a system boat, a small vessel used for patrol and policing space lanes. Not Warp-capable but rated to travel to the outermost reaches of a stellar system. Most importantly of all it would have a crew of no more than a hundred Mon-Keigh, enough for Manaar to dominate.

Unfortunately between the Warp Spider and the vessel stood a pair of Hybrids, a rearguard left to hold the starport. They hadn't seen Manaar but they would if he did not dispatch them, he would need them dead lest they sounded an alarm. The Warp Spider leapt straight upwards, landing lightly on the roof of a shuttle. The Hybrids didn't notice his motion, nor did they notice as he leapt to the next and the next. The Warp Spider could hear them below his position, bantering back and forth like they were in no danger. He spent a moment judging the range, then he flipped forward and dropped right behind them.

The first never saw what killed her. The Warp Spider dropping behind her silently, then reached around and slit her throat with both phase-blades. The body dropped with a thud and the other turned, only to see his comrade lying dead at the feet of an Eldar Aspect Warrior. He hurriedly brought up a blunt shotgun but before his could fire the Deathspinners spoke and the Hybrid was engulfed in a cloud of mono-filament threads.

Manaar turned away from the pile of offal that had been an enemy and surveyed his goal. The vessel was sealed and barred against entry and the hatches were locked down. It seemed the Hybrids had been content to ignore this craft, leaving it for later. Manaar could see the crude lockplates and weighty hatches barring his way. Defeating them would take much time, but thankfully he had other options.

Manaar centred his mind and checked his mental discipline was undisturbed, lest his feeble half taint his purpose with doubt. Then he disappeared in a burst of unlight. He skimmed over the surface of the warp for a single heartbeat, only to reappear on the vessel's bridge, surrounded by cramped consoles and blank-eyed servitors. There was a single Mon-Keigh on the bridge, shivering in a chair before the helm. A pale-faced young male, with little strength to his arm and no scars of battle on his face, nor a pistol in his belt. Manaar instantly judged him a coward, hiding in this hole praying that battle would pass him by.

The Mon-Keigh rose with a start, "Throne! Who are you? How did you get in here?!"

His tirade was cut short by Manaar's phase-blade laid across his throat and a hissed, "How many others are on board?"

"What?" the man uttered, "I don't… Look my name is…"

"I need not your name," Manaar growled as he pressed a hair forward and drew a drop of blood, "You are not brave enough to defy me. Choose your words carefully."

"I…ah…" the man stammered, "There's… there's only me. I'm all alone, except for the servitor crew."

Manaar leaned in and spat, "You lie."

"No, no," the man pleaded, "It's mostly servitors on this ship, the captain and officers don't like paying for a full crew. They're away in the city; everybody took off to visit the bars and brothels. I was left to watch the ship, I'm the newest around here you see, so I get the short stick. Then the fighting broke out and I locked down the ship. I haven't heard anything in hours."

Manaar cut off his babbling with a hissed, "You can fly this ship?"

"I can," the man confirmed, "The servitors do everything, I simply tell them where to go. Just don't expect anything too fancy, they can't think for themselves."

Manaar stepped back and ordered, "Take off and plot a course for the outermost planet of this stellar system."

The Mon-keigh gulped, "There's a lot of fighting in orbit, a lot of firepower above our heads. We might die before we reach escape velocity."

"If you don't take off, you will die this very minute," Manaar informed him.

The Mon-Keigh seemed to get the point and dropped into a seat, then reached for the controls. As the ship began to stir around them Manaar looked out the armourglass viewportal and saw the flames and smoke rising from the city. The final assault on the Citadel had begun and he judged it would fall swiftly. The Genestealers were too numerous and too well-armed to withstand, they would carry the day and claim this world.

From the depths of his soul his feeble half protested he could yet change that, he could intervene and save the lives of those he had met. He had fought alongside them, eaten their food and partaken of their wine and art, crude as it was. He had been a comrade to them, albeit a reluctant one, but still they had formed a bond. Did that count for nothing, his insipid half needled.

Yet the Warp Spider remained unmoved by this plea. His purpose was clear and he was unwavering in his conviction. The quest given unto him was complete and he had no onus to remain. The Eldar race did not assist lesser races, he told himself, firmly believing that other species only existed for the benefit of his people. This world had no more value to Furta-Rith, its fate impinged not on the Craftworld so he would not lift a finger in its defence.

As the system boat began to shake with rocket exhaust Manaar turned his back on the battle, not even bothered to see who won. The stars called and he would not look back. With that thought Manaar departed Pascum, abandoning the Mon-Keigh to their doom.


	40. Chapter 40

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 40**

With a terrible roar the horde charged into the breach. Hundreds of Hybrids in various states of disfigurement, some almost human in appearance others hunch-back monstrosities, blending Genestealer, human and animal into a hideous amalgam. Among their number Purestrains loped like great predators, their eyes cold and their maws hungry for warm flesh and hot blood. They ran over broken rubble and shattered stone, climbing into the sundered defences in a mad rush. They were united by their urge to conquer and confident that the battle was all but won. They could taste victory.

Against them stood one Space Marine, all alone. Persion faces down a horde of monsters with nothing but a pistol and an axe. He saw the oncoming foe and knew he could not defeat this enemy by himself. There was no doubt he would fall to their claws and fangs but he refused to flee. Persion may be a rule-breaker but he was Astartes to the core. Defiance and stubbornness were hammered into his soul and he would not relent. He was not prone to grandstanding or philosophising but given the choice between dying on his feet with a weapon in hand or dying on his knees, there was no choice at all.

Persion planted his feet in the rubble and drew back his arm. The horde was rising the slope, rushing at him in a wave of chitin and filthy skin. Enfilading fire still fell from the defensive bastions to either side, but not enough, not nearly enough. The Genestealers flooded into the breach in a tidal surge and nothing could deny them. Persion saw they would rush him, taking him down with ease. He steeled his soul for the end and silently thanked his wargear for its leal service, then he glanced at his axe and muttered, "Noble axe, let us see how many we can take down with us."

The horde was moments away from crashing into him. Persion could see their black eyes and sneering grins of contempt. They raced at him with no thought for anything but the kill, eager to taste his flesh. Yet Persion's eyes lifted over them and he gazed upwards, seeing the most miraculous sight he had ever beheld. From the sky dropped a cruciform shape, diving vertically from on high towards the breach. It was a blunt-nosed slab of a craft, its wings laden with ordnance and a mighty Turbolaser was laid along its spine. It was Starfire and the Thunderhawk was on an attack run.

Persion didn't even have time to open his vox before the gunship fired. Rippling flashes sparked along its wings as a flurry of Hellfire missiles broke free, hurtling earthwards on smoking contrails of exhaust. A second later they struck just outside the void shield envelope, bathing the lower end of the breach in searing flames. An inferno of heat and light engulfed the heart of the horde, cooking the Genestealers alive. Their flesh was set on fire as their chitin hides were violated. They screamed and tore at their burning flesh as they fell, roasting alive as the firestorm swept over them. The first wave of the horde was decimated, forcing those behind to step back from the destruction.

Persion's hearts soared at the magnificent sight, a reprieve snatched from the jaws of defeat. He saw Starfire pulling out of her attack run, the belly of the gunship clearing the wall by mere metres. She swooped over the horde and ran for the horizon, chased by missiles launched from Hybrid teams lurking in the surrounding buildings. One missile clipped her flank and the gunship wobbled but it was only a glancing blow and the Thunderhawk righted as she flew away, leaving devastation behind. Perion finally found the vox-channel and called, "A righteous kill Brothers!"

The retreating pilots voxed, "Hold fast Brother-Lieutenant, we'll loop about and come at them again."  
"Watch that ground fire," Persion voxed, "But still, you have my thanks."  
"What?" another voice cut in, "No thanks for us?"

Persion's head snapped about and he saw Sergeant Zeax descending the breach, skidding down the loose scree in a shower of dust. With him came his seven surviving Devastators, doing a fine job keeping their Heavy Bolters clear of debris. Behind them came five intercessors, striding down the slope with confident gaits. Persion had never been more glad to see his Brothers and called, "You are a welcome sight."  
"Couldn't let you hog all the glory," Zeax scoffed, "I want some victory laurels when this is done."  
"There will be plenty to go around," Persion reassured him, "Here they come again."

In the breach the fires were dying out, smothered by dead bodies. Piles of crisped corpses lay strewn everywhere, clinging to each other in a macabre display of death. Yet beyond them the horde pressed forward, numerous beyond the paltry few killed in the first wave. They barrelled over their scorched dead without pause, their Broodmind squashing all trace of fear or grief. Only the urge to kill filled their minds and they ran for the breach, heedless of their losses.

"Present arms!" Persion cried and every Brother levelled their guns into the oncoming horde.  
"Hold, till you see the black of their eyes," Zeax snarled as he hefted his Thunder Hammer.  
"Hold, hold," Persion ordered, "Now, open fire!"

As one the Storm Heralds let rip, blasting into the closing horde. Four Heavy Bolters thundered, sweeping blazing contrails into the onrushing wave, scything foes down with relentless fury. Godwyn pattern bolters and Mark II Bolt Rifles added their fury, blasting away enemies with deadly accuracy. Persion added the weight of his bolt pistol to the barrage, fleeing the familiar kick of the mass-reactive rounds sailing away.

Hybrids fell in droves, their chests blasted open and limbs blown free. Young and old, male and female, the bolt rounds claimed all regardless, hitting hard and detonating a second later to blow bodies apart. Even Purestrains were not immune to the carnage, their heads disappearing in clouds of red mist and their hearts torn from their chests. Showers of viscera rained as blood fountained high and fell back down, pattering on the heads of those yet to be killed. The ground became slippery underfoot, the stones wet with vitae, fallen bodies threatening to trip stumbling feet.

Persion shot a three-armed man, then blew the head off a woman with razor-sharp fangs then blasted free the left side of a boy with a ridged skull. Around him the Storm Heralds laid on fire, mowing enemies apart. They were slaughtering scores with their deadly accurate fire. They were holding the line, against all odds they were holding the breach. It was as fine a stand as any in the Chapter's history: fourteen Space Marines set against the innumerable hordes of the Xenos. Rapacious alien hunger set against human courage and fortitude.

Persion emptied his pistol's magazine, then reloaded and then emptied it again. His Brothers did likewise, spilling spent bolt-casings to the ground like rainwater. Their movements were swift and sure but every time they paused to reload the horde pressed forward, gaining ground inch by inch. Persion saw the horde closing and called, "They are going to reach us!" M  
"Bring them on," Zeax snarled, "My hammer thirsts for alien blood."  
"Keep firing Brothers," Persion ordered, "Zeax and I will hold them at bay."

The Genestealers were metres away now, held back only by the weight of fire. Then a wizened crone with talons for fingers fell missing a head, revealing a Purestrain lurking behind her. It bounded forward only to be met by Persion's axe. A sweep of the weapon and a clawed arm went flying but the Purestrain hissed as its two left arms stabbed for his side. Persion threw himself backwards and swept his axe about but the Purestrain ducked and the blazing head sailed by. It bunched up to pounce upon him but suddenly a crackling golden hammer slammed into its back, blowing its spine apart.

Zeax turned back to face the horde as he chortled, "That makes us even."  
"You dream!" Persion yelled as a Hybrid came at him, "I'm far ahead of your tally."  
Zeax met the oncoming foes with a sweep of his hammer as he sneered, "The day's not over yet!"

Persion's world shrank as the Hybrids closed upon him, those making it through the scything firepower leaping into combat. His vision was filled with stabbing knives and clawing talons as they charged at him, filthy skins and chitin hides pressing in. He met them with sweeps of his Friction Axe, cleaving limbs away and smashing in faces with every blow. He fought without restraint, using every advantage he could get. The burning edge of his axe, knees, elbows, the butt of his pistol, all were deadly weapons and he used them all to keep the foe at bay. His hearts burned with righteous ardour, his zeal honed and focussed by centuries of warfare. Persion had waged war across the stars, he had faced Traitors and Heretics, Daemons and even the Tyranid menace itself. Every moment had hardened him into a ferocious warrior and he brought every drop of his experience to bear, turning his zeal into a flurry of blows that laid the Genestealers low.

Persion lost count of how many he slew but his concentration was prickled as his vox squawked, "ion, come in… ar me. Persion!"  
Persion caught Otlie's tones and as he fought on he called, "Persion here, report!"  
Otlie voxed, "The North wall is collapsing, all points are overrun. Armour is advancing on your position. I repeat tanks are entering the breach."

Persion kicked a Hybrid to the ground and saw it was true, a dozen PDF tanks were rumbling onto the slope. The surviving Thunderers and Demolishers angling towards the Space Marines. Zeax sent a Purestrain flying away in pieces as he snarled, "Warp Hells, I'd thought they'd forgotten about those."  
"We're not that lucky," Persion barked, "These things are damned smart."

The tanks ground to a halt and their barrels elevated, aiming to blow the Space Marines away in one salvo. Persion knew his squads had nothing that could withstand a barrage of Demolisher shells and they could not stop firing into the horde lest they be overrun. Yet from the horizon came hope. The faint speck of Starfire was returning, sweeping low over the buildings as it closed. The Turbolaser on its dorsal spine glowed with latent destruction, power enough to smite the tanks utterly.

The vox crackled, "Brother-Lieutenant, fire support incoming. Stand-by for danger close engagement."  
"Understood," Persion voxed, "But watch out for…"

He didn't get to finish, for as the Thunderhawk flew low over the buildings a flurry of missiles arose. Ground teams of Hybrids firing blindly into the sky in an attempt to bring down the gunship. Few of them came close to the rushing Thunderhawk, missing it by metres, but three flew right into its path. One burst off its lower hull, only buckling the armour plating. Another clipped the cockpit, shattering the glassic viewportal and ripping off the canopy, leaving the pilots exposed but still flying. But the third missile flew straight up before a wing and was sucked into one of the howling jet intakes.

Starfire's port engine exploded, blowing shrapnel far and wide and tearing her left wing clean off. The Thunderhawk screamed as her form was violated, torn apart by lashing destruction. With a few more seconds perhaps the pilots could have recovered, or at least made a crash landing, but they were already committed to their attack run, hurtling towards the line of tanks at breakneck speed. There was no time to pull up, no possibility of averting doom. Starfire tumbled towards the tanks like a spear thrown from the heavens, dropping with flaming debris shedding from her flank.

Persion witnessed the explosion and his eyes widened with disbelief. He watched as the noble Thunderhawk fell to her doom, speeding towards inevitable death. At the very last instant he saw the surviving flaps jerk and the gunship twisted in mid-air, flying belly first. It was not an attempt to escape death but to spread the coming destruction as widely as possible. The pilots knew they were dead already and with their last breath they turned their gunship to ensure the crash took out as many tanks as possible. Then Starfire plunged into the lumbering column of machines and exploded.

Fire filled the breach for a second time and flaming debris was flown high. Persion's wars were battered by the noise and he felt a wave of heat wash over him as shrapnel pinged off his battered plate. Genestealers were blown off their feet, lashed by flames and violated by red hot shrapnel. Smoke and ash rose from the crash site, obscuring his view but he saw half-a-dozen tanks were flaming wrecks, reduced to burning hulks. Two more tanks had been flipped over, their crews killed in the mad tumble and the rest were milling about, trying to seal their hatches against the flames bathing their roofs.

The horde faltered as their armoured fist was destroyed and the few Hybrids on this side of the crash were swiftly cut down by lashing bolter fire. Persion looked upon the gravesite of Starfire and was left speechless. Two noble Brothers had died and their last chance to drive back the horde was gone. It fell to Zeax to say, "What do we do now?"

Persion croaked, "Fallback, we must fallback and regroup."  
"Retreat?" Zeax sneered  
But Persion steadied his voice and said, "No gunship, no sign of Yones' team and the wall is overrun. This position is lost, we must withdraw to a better one."

Zeax nodded once then turned and yelled, "You heard the order, fall back to secondary positions."  
Persion called over the vox, "All units withdraw from the north wall and regroup at the inner courtyard. We shall make our stand there."

Hurriedly men abandoned the outer wall and ran. All over the north quadrant, they turned their backs on the enemy and fled. The fight to hold the walls of the Jade Citadel had been lost, all that remained was to make their last stand. Persion looked upon the horde lurking beyond the crash site and knew they would chase the defenders no matter where they fled. This battle was far from over and Persion was determined to make the enemy suffer before the end.


	41. Chapter 41

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 41**

Odrin was pleased with his work and so was the Broodmind. He could feel its satisfaction thrumming through him, the knowledge that victory was within its clutches. Even though he was kilometres away Odrin could sense that the triumph of the Kiith was at hand. The Imperials were falling back into their last redoubt, chased by Genestealers every step of the way. The scattered remnants of the PDF in the city were isolated or subverted and the rest of the planet was wracked by confusion and violence. This was all thanks to Odrin.

The former First Secretary had been making himself useful. He had taken a group of Purestrains and spent the last few hours hunting down as many PDF officers as they could find. In small groups they had been captured and brought before him, to be given the Genestealer's kiss. One by one the officers had been subsumed into the Broodmind, their wills perverted to the service of the Cult. With them had come a good chunk of the PDF, many of the foolish dupes blindly following orders to turn over their weapons and tanks to the Cult. Those few troopers who resisted had been eliminated swiftly. The handful of units whose officers had escaped notice were isolated in their enclaves, unable to act or coordinate any effective resistance. The PDF was no longer a threat.

Elsewhere Odrin's web of allies and rebels were sowing havoc, mustering rebellions in other cities, attacking loyal institutions and ambushing authority figures in their own homes. Even the orbital lanes were a warzone, his uprising overwhelming many stations to turn their guns on their fellows. It was base treachery and the best part was the dupes had no idea they were serving a Genestealer cult. Word of what was happening in Pasdem city had been suppressed, or dismissed as propaganda by agents Odrin had placed long ago. Most of those taking up arms thought they were fighting for a free Pascum, blithely unaware of the canker in their heart.

Yes, Odrin thought, he had served the Kiith well. So why wouldn't the Broodmind leave him alone?

He could feel it pulsing in his head, compelling him to join the assault on the Jade Citadel. Even with victory mere hours away the group consciousness wanted Odrin to throw himself heedlessly into danger, sacrificing his life like a pawn. It wasn't right, Odrin grumbled, he had arranged this victory, his wits and his intelligence had advanced the Kiith further than he ever could have done with his fists and a rifle. He was a planner and a schemer, bred to lead and command, not a low-caste thug to be thrown away on a whim.

It was Tyvis' doing, he told himself. For years he had served the Kiith in isolation, granted freedom of thought and action. Then he had reconnected with his kin and found it far less pleasing than he had expected. He hadn't expected to be treated as a pawn. Worse had been the revelation that the mysterious leader of the Kiith he had longed feared was in fact a woman he detested. It had been too much.

The Magus of the Cult held him in contempt and her sneering dismissal of Odrin was leaking into the Broodmind, turning it against him. The Patriarch didn't care, all its children were equally expendable in its eyes. Odrin didn't dare challenge the Grandfather but Tyvis he could do something about. Yes the Magus had to go, before she got Odrin killed.

Odrin's bitter musing was interrupted as a Hybrid raced up to him, waving to indicate they had captured more prisoners. They were currently underground, in the endless warren of tunnels and passages laying beneath the city. Odrin was standing in a disused railway line, the walls dank and musty from centuries of neglect. Further down the passageway a group of Purestrains lurked, awaiting his order and Odrin indicated they should follow him with a weary sigh.

He followed the Hybrid down the tunnel for long minutes, until he spied a knot of Hybrids grouped around a line of kneeling prisoners. The Kiith warriors looked battered and frayed and many of them still bore weeping wounds, an impulse through the Broodmind telling him these were the paltry survivors of a far larger number. Odrin frowned as he wondered what could possibly have claimed so many Genestealer lives, then he saw it.

Kneeling in the dust was a Space Marine, one warrior in blue ceramite of the newer pattern. His chest was cleaved by many wounds, still leaking transhuman blood. A great chasm in his breast revealing where one of his hearts had been ripped out. His arms were bound by many heavy chains, held by four Hybrids and his head was dipped low in a drunken fashion. Odrin was amazed any warrior could suffer such wounds and yet live, but the Space Marine radiated fortitude and stubbornness. Were he not half-dead then there was no doubt that the Marine would still be trying to kill them.

Next to him was a line of lesser mortals, kneeling in the dirt with their hands bound behind them. A Red-robed tech-priest, a muscled guardsman, a woman in silver armour and finally a face he recognised: Inquisitor Vevara, glaring at him with hatred in her eyes. Odrin grinned at the sight; they had captured an Inquisitor, the possibilities of that were endless. He stepped closer to gloat but the Hybrid who had summoned him hissed, "Careful, there's something wrong with this lot. Something cold."

"Spare me your feeble-minded protests," Odrin scoffed, "I can handle it."

"On your head be it," the Hybrid muttered.

Odrin faced Vevara and said, "My lady, how good it is to see you. Have you come to join our family?"

Vevara's lip curled as she growled, "Alien scum! I have nothing for you, save death. I should have shot you on sight."

Odrin smirked, "So defiant, yet once you receive the Kiss you shall serve us willingly."

"Never," Vevara hissed.

Odrin chuckled as he looked over the line and asked, "Where is your Eldar servant? The Kiith could do so much with his unique genic material."

Vevara hacked a gobbet of spittle at his feet and snarled, "I name thee Diabolicus Hereticus. Your extinction shall be meted out by the hand of the Emperor's servants."

Odrin laughed it off as he eyed the damaged Transhuman and mused, "I confess I don't know what effect the Kiss will have on a Space Marine. Can the Broodmind turn his spirit or shall his gene-forging make him immune? I am curious to find out, perhaps we should…"

As he said that he stepped nearer and felt the strangest sensation wash over him. A cold shiver and a sense of lurking dread stealing over his heart. He felt empty and alone and forgotten, cut off from the universe and all possibility of comradeship. He was shocked to realise the Broodmind was gone, totally absent from his head. For the first time since this began he didn't feel the compulsion to throw himself into battle, he did not have to fight to keep his body under control. He was back in command of his own instincts and relief filled him.

From the look in their eyes the other Hybrids felt it too and Odrin leaned down to Vevara and hissed, "How are you doing that?" Vevara clamped her mouth shut and refused to answer. Odrin however was not concerned, whatever eldritch technology she wielded, whatever anti-psychic power she possessed it was working and Odrin spied possibility unfold.

He leaned back and declared, "Bring them to the Mother."

The nearest Hybrid frowned as he asked, "Shouldn't we give them the Kiss first?"

"Of course not," Odrin lied, "The Mother wants new genes to examine, pure and untainted. She will want to examine their genomes, before we start changing them."

The Hybrids nodded dumbly and forced the prisoners to their feet. The Space Marine was half-dead and had to be dragged along by four Purestrains, his feet leaving tracks in the dust. Odrin made sure to stay near to Vevara as they walked, luxuriating in the feeling of having his will back. He didn't understand how this was possible but he intended to make the most of it. There was no telling how long the effect would last. If he was to make his move he had to do it now.

Odrin led the party through the tunnels back to the railway station where he had last seen Tyvis. They entered through one of the deserted tunnels and found the place unchanged. The piles of dead lay where they had been dropped, stinking badly as they rotted. The blood had dried on the floor and the shattered clock hung forlornly over the middle of the space as lumen orbs fitted weakly along the walls, casting thick shadows across the roof girders. Tyvis was standing in her black dress on one platform, her hands pressed together and eyes screwed up in concentration. She was communing with the Broodmind, imposing her will upon her kin and directing their efforts from afar. She didn't need to be near the assault to win the day.

Tyvis' eyes opened, black pearls in the white dot of her face that glittered with power, as she hissed, "Odrin, what are you doing here?"

Odrin should have been floored by her will but he felt nothing, the aura of emptiness rendering the Magus' power moot. He smiled falsely as he called, "I bring you great prizes."

Tyvis didn't seem to notice he wasn't quailing before her power and sneered, "You should be joining the assault on the Jade Citadel. Even now our kin break into the Dominus' precious palace, it shall be ours before the day is out. You should be leading the Kiith to victory."

Odrin kept walking as he called, "I have better ways to serve the Kiith, come and see."

Yet Tyvis raised a hand and snapped, "I can see from here. A gaggle of humans, worthless to me."

Odrin suppressed a flinch, he had hoped to get the Magus within the Null aura and so render her powerless. Still he faked a generous wave as he declared, "Not worthless, look."

"A Space Marine," Tyvis breathed, "One of the corpse-Emperor's gets."

Odrin nodded as he confirmed, "You said you desired their genome to study."

Tyvis' face curled in anger as she growled, "One of them burned my home to ash, destroying the fruit of my labours. I want more than a specimen to study, I want revenge."

Odrin grinned as he elaborated, "That is not all. I bring an Inquisitor before you."

"An inquisitor?" Tyvis started, "A great prize indeed. What secrets will she reveal to us?"

Vevara glared up at her and spat, "I will see your wretched cult burned out root and branch. There is nowhere you can hide from the gaze of the Inquisition!"

"Silence!" Tyvis barked as her eyes glittered. Odrin felt nothing of the psychic command but his hand jerked anyway, knowing what she wanted, to strike Vevara over the face.

Vevara winced as a livid mark was left over her face and were her hands not bound she would surely have struck back. As it was Tyvis hissed, "You shall tell us all your secrets, when you join us."

Odrin was alarmed by the prospect, he didn't know what arts the Inquisitor was employing but he couldn't risk them being disrupted, so hastily interjected, "If she won't speak, maybe one of her comrades will."

Tyvis grinned evilly as she said, "Yes, let her see the fate that awaits her. Make them all kneel."

Kicks to the back of the legs made them all fall and the line of humans struggled resentfully as they were grabbed by rough hands. Odrin enjoyed seeing the Tech-Priest and silver-clad woman helplessly wriggling in their captor's grip but the muscled guardsmen jerked his head back and smashed his skull into the nose of the Hybrid gripping him. He growled angrily but two more grabbed him and forced him to hold still as a Purestrain loomed behind him, mouth opening to reveal its ovipositor.

Tyvis' face screwed up in anger and she jumped down from her elevated platform as she snapped, "For that, you go first." Odrin stepped back slightly and felt the tingle of the Broodmind, just on the edge of his consciousness. He judged he was at the edge of the Null Aura and eyed Tyvis warily. A few more steps and she would be inside the effect, stripped of her power and influence over the Kiith. Odrin forced his hand to stillness but he was ready to draw his laspistol and fire the second she was near. He had to be fast and sure, else his kindred would tear him limb from limb in revenge. He was gambling that the disruption of losing their Magus would leave the rest of the Kiith bewildered and confused, her absence from the Broodmind a hammer blow to their spirits. If he was quick and bold he could step in and assume her place, grasping the reins of leadership in the sudden confusion.

Tyvis took a step forward, head held high as she declared, "Soon you will join the Kiith. Your will shall be mine, your thoughts only those I desire. You will serve me willingly, telling me everything you know of the Imperium's secrets and taking our seed out into the stars."

Odrin expected a bold retort from the Inquisitor, he expected defiance and vitriol but to his surprise Vevara said nothing. He frowned as he saw the Inquisitor wasn't even looking at them, but instead her eyes were slipping upwards, gazing into the shadows overhead. A more experienced soldier wouldn't have looked, expecting some ploy or trap, but Odrin hadn't spent much time in battle and curiously his head swivelled to gaze upwards. Then his jaw dropped in horror.

Staring back at him was a dark figure in a half-skull mask. The being was clinging upside down to a girder with its legs and one hand and in the other was a wicked knife. He was slimmer in build than the Transhuman they had dragged here but he was unmistakably a Space Marine and he wasn't alone. Among the rafters over the railway station were eight of them and one in heavier plate. They were directly over the Genestealer's heads and they were poised to strike.

Odrin's alarm flared but his kin did not feel it, he was cut off from the Broodmind and could not alert his comrades through their group consciousness. It took him two whole seconds to remember that and he opened his mouth to scream a warning but he was too late. As one the Space Marines let go and silently dropped onto the Genestealer's heads.

Jediah's band of murderers had found the Magus and they fell upon the vulnerable Genestealers like avenging angels from on high.


	42. Chapter 42

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 42**

Sergeant Gotram moved quietly through the gloomy shadows, using all his skill and stealth to avoid detection. Silent as a ghost he drifted through the dusty girders, gripping the metal with his gloved hands and his boots finding ready purchase upon the ancient metal. Behind him ghosted seven other Reivers, each as quiet as he was and behind them came Jediah. The Lieutenant was forced to move slower because his backpack generator ran on its lowest ebb, Mark VII plate wasn't designed for stealth and its cumbersome bulk meant he was lagging behind.

The Reivers had separated from the rest of the Storm Heralds hours earlier, descending into the depths of the undercity to hunt their prey. Other units may have protested the notion of leaving their kin to fight alone but Reivers were deep range infiltration and sabotage units. They were intended to fight apart, seeking their own objectives and targets without support from their kin. Gotram expected the fight on the surface would be raging but there was nothing he could do about that, so put it from his mind and concentrated on reaching the next girder.

For hours the Reivers had stalked the tunnels, finding them surprisingly deserted. It seemed the bulk of the Cult had risen to the surface to prosecute their war, leaving their nests undefended. The Reivers had been encouraged by this, thinking that the Patriarch would be alone and unguarded. They could engage their quarry unopposed and bring their combined might to bear. It sounded good but there was a flaw in the strategy: they couldn't find the Patriarch anywhere. Disappointing hours had crawled by without any sign of their quarry and it seemed the target had slipped their net. Then Gotram had suggested they double-back, maybe if they returned to the scene of their battle they could find some hint of where it had gone. Lacking any other ideas Jediah had gruffly agreed, leading the Reivers back to the deserted train station. They had slipped in from above, unobserved by any guard, only to be surprised to find the Genestealers had left a sizeable rearguard behind.

Gotram passed over another beam and looked downward. Scattered about were various Genestealers, boasting a bewildering plethora of macabre deformities and perversions. Yet on one proud platform stood a woman in black, she was almost normal in appearance yet by the way the others deferred to her she was a figure of some authority. From Memnos' description she resembled Matriarch Tyvis; the corrupt leader of the Genic council and by all accounts a figure of some seniority in the Genestealer Cult. The Reivers were almost directly over her head and Gotram eyed her hungrily, perhaps she knew where the Patriarch lay.

Suddenly there was a commotion as a gaggle of newcomers entered the station through a deserted tunnel. Gotram took the noise of their arrival as cover to advance two more beams, squeezing through the gap of a crossbrace without making any noise. He was brought to a halt as he saw the newcomers were dragging an Intercessor with them, Brother Spika. He was in a terrible state, his limbs heavy and one heart was torn out and he slumped drunkenly. Gotram knew exactly how much punishment a Primaris could endure and he gulped to imagine the kind of wounds it would take to incapacitate one.

There were others with him and Gotram was startled to recognise Inquisitor Vevara's retinue, most of them at least. They were marched before the black-cloaked figure, who began a typical gloating exchange. Gotram tuned out her grandstanding as his eyes scoured the guards, counting their numbers and guns. He paused as he recognised one of them to be Odrin, the renegade First Secretary and he grinned under his skull-mask to realise two cult leaders were within their grasp.

Gotram saw Jediah make a series of hand signals and the Reivers slid around the beams, hanging from them like Martian Rust-bats. Gotram let go one hand and drew his knife silently, the metal of its blade dulled with soot so it would not gleam. The Reivers prepared to drop onto their foe's heads, Gotram singling out a Purestrain as his first kill. The enemy were moving closer together, forcing the prisoners to kneel before them. Gotram tensed to drop, and that was when Odrin looked upwards, right into his eyes.

Odrin's eyes widened and his jaw dropped but before he could say a word the Reivers let go of their perches and dropped straight down. Gotram felt the wind whoosh over his eyes and the palms of his hands tingled with vertigo as he plummeted for a single second. He fell straight down then he smashed into the back of a Purestrain, driving his knife into the spine, releasing a spray of black blood. Marine and Genestealer fell in a tangle of limbs and Gotram threw his weight to one side so to avoid being encumbered, then he rose to his feet with his knife in hand.

Screams greeted him as the Genestealers grasped they were under attack. They lifted their weapons and raised their claws but the Space Marines were faster. The Reivers bounded straight at them, smashing bodily into the packed foe and bowling them over. Speed and aggression, shock and awe, all favoured the Reivers and in a few seconds they slew many. Gotram tore the throat out of a fat man with too many fingers, then stabbed a skeletally thin woman with one engorged eye in the heart, then disembowelled a filthy boy with four arms. The Hybrids fell in scores before the onslaught of the Reivers and they sowed havoc with their assault.

The Genestealers reeled under the attack but their confusion did not last long. The Purestrains among them rallied and threw themselves into the fray, claws lashing out. Gotram saw Brother Ferhia suffer a slash across his face, cleaving his mask and taking his nose with it. The Reiver was left with a gaping wound across his face that spilled blood, but he was not given pause and grappled the Purestrain with all his might. Jediah was set upon by another but he fended it off with the snickering fan-blade clamped to his left wrist while he jabbed with his Short-Sword. Rending claws were set against razor-sharp shield and Fractal blade and Gotram could barely follow the exchange of blows.

He had no more time to watch for he was set upon by a charging pair of Hybrids, trying to stab him with the bayonets attached to their lascarbines. Gotram twisted aside from the thrusts and plunged his knife into the neck of the first, then he punched the other in the side, so hard he shattered ribs and caused the lung to collapse. The Hybrid fell coughing blood and Gotram twisted about to see how the battle fared.

The Reivers were driving back the Genestealers with terrible ferocity, using all their zeal to slay everything within reach. They had always been ruthless killers and terrifying warriors but now they were fighting better than Gotram had ever seen. Jediah's teachings had honed their raw savagery with discipline and laser-like focus, turning them into a band of murderers beyond compare. They fought with duty and relish, skill and savagery, hammered by purpose but fired by bloodlust. Both sides of their natures combined to elevate them to new heights of lethality. They weren't just killing because they were ordered to, they were enjoying it.

It was too much for the Genestealers and Gotram saw Odrin turn on his heel and flee, running from the fight into one of the tunnels. He snarled to see the treacherous worm escape, but there was no time to pursue, not when he was surrounded by foes. Gotram fought on, slaying as many as he could in the mad scrum of the melee. The Genestealers were thinning in number but they fought on regardless, driven by a will other than their own. Then suddenly there was a feral roar and Gotram saw the form of Brother Spika rising. The wounded Intercessor bellowed in fury as his head came up, the din of battle drawing him from his stupor. He was still chained by four Hybrids but his arms heaved inwards and they were hurled from their feet, unable to resist his raw strength. He slammed his hands together and the gaolers tumbled to the ground, only to have their necks snapped by his heavy kicks.

"Arm me!" Spika roared.  
Gotram's hand flashed and his bolt pistol flew over as he cried, "Here Brother, show them your fury!"

Spika caught the pistol and began letting off pinpoints shots into the fray. He brought down several hybrids but then Vevara lurched to her feet shouting, "Free us!" Spika fired one-handed as he freed the Inquisitor's retinue. Vevara instantly snatched up a las-carbine and began firing into the throng as she shouted, "His judgement is upon you!"

Gotram had no more time to watch as the crowd parted and he spied Tyvis. The woman was frantically urging her kin into the fray but then she saw Gotram turning towards her and lifted her hands, fingers hooked like claws. Gotram's mind felt a sledgehammer slam into it, his soul crushed by hypnotic snares. Heavy chains of psychic power fell upon him, dragging his limbs down and making him feel weak as a mortal. Tyvis was trying to dominate his mind but Gotram refused to yield. His will was iron and his soul tempered by war. He would not be cowed by a black-hearted abomination and the fires of righteous hatred forced his foot forward a single pace.

Tyvis screeched in alarm and redoubled her efforts but Gotram was unyielding and forced his foot another step forward. Then suddenly he saw the silver-clad woman race towards them, Vevara's pet Sister of Silence. As soon as she came into range her Null Aura engulfed the pair in anti-psychic emptiness. Gotram shivered at the touch but Tyvis screamed in agony as her power was shorn from her and her dominating gaze snapped. Gotram's limbs broke free of their bonds and he took one, two, three steps then rammed his knife into Tyvis' stomach.

The second he did so something strange came over the Genestealers, they screamed and clutched their heads, reeling as if something vital had been torn from them. They staggered like drunks, barely able to lift their hands and in that moment of vulnerability the Reivers had them. Knives flashed, pistols barked and in moments the Reivers had slaughtered all the remaining foes within sight. In seconds they had reduced the mob of foes to a pile of corpses, leaving the station firmly in the hands of the Space Marines.

While that played out Gotram had caught the stabbed Tyvis and held her upright by the neck as he snarled, "You will tell me where the Patriarch is."  
Tyvis's hands clutched feebly at the knife protruding from her belly but they slipped off the bloody handle as she stammered, "I… I won't."

"You will," Gotram growled, "Or your passing will be slow and painful."  
"Never," Tyvis hissed, "I won't betray the Grandfather."

Gotram saw Jediah closing, impatiently brandishing his sword. Gotram did not wait for the Lieutenant to intervene, he could do this himself. Jediah had shown him how to embrace the darkness within his hearts and Gotram was ready to do whatever he had to. His hand grabbed the knife and twisted it, turning the blade in her stomach. Tyvis screamed in torment, as the blade ripped her guts apart and she wept in agony as Gotram slowly twisted it further and further. She wept and screamed but the Reiver was relentless, staring into her eyes as he tortured her.

"Tell me," Gotram growled as his hand kept turning, "Speak and I will end this quickly."  
Tyvis couldn't withstand the agony ripping her apart and blurted, "The… surface. The Grandfather is on the surface!"

"Truth, and as for the other part of our bargain," Gotram said as he snapped her neck in one motion.

Gotram dropped the corpse and declared, "The Patriarch is on the surface."  
Jediah stomped up and snapped, "Then there's no time to waste, we have to get there, fast."

The Reivers drew themselves up but another voice intruded, Inquisitor Vevara saying, "Take my retinue with you."  
"We can't be slowed by mortals," Gotram protested.

"It's pointless to go without them," Vevara countered, "You killed the Magus, that will disrupt the Cult but so long as the Patriarch lives they will reform, and quickly. You need every hand for what's coming."  
"And where will you be?" Jediah growled.

Vevara hefted a lascarbine as she said, "Odrin has fled and I must pursue him. If he escapes then this infestation will linger, the cult will survive and lay the seeds of the next war, I have to prevent that happening. This is my duty, I have pronounced the judgement of the Inquisition upon Odrin and I must see it enacted. The God-Emperor demands it."

"As you will," Jediah spat impatiently, "We have no time to argue. Everybody move out."  
The Reivers fell in but Gotram eyed Spika and asked, "Can you keep up?"

The intercessor mumbled, "I'm… not dead yet."  
"Then we march double-time," Gotram ordered, "We have to get to the surface as fast as possible."

With that the party departed, leaving piles of dead in their wake. One head of the Cult had been cut off, but another remained. The greatest fight yet lay ahead and Gotram was in no doubt that the bloodshed to come would put this skirmish to shame.


	43. Chapter 43

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 43**

Pain, that was all he could feel: all-encompassing and crushing pain. It burned his back and sank talons into his bones. It chewed on his muscles and put a vice upon his beating hearts, draining his spirit and leaving him numb. He could feel the weight of stone piled upon his legs and the struggle to breathe as cracked ribs pressed upon his lungs. His implants burned hot in a vain effort to restore his body, even on the verge of death his genhanced body sought to restore itself, trying to make him fit for battle once more. It was pointless, he was too badly damaged. Memnos was going nowhere.

The Apothecary lay face down on the tunnel floor, his lower half buried in the rubble. He had no idea how many hours he had laid like this. He had blacked out for a long time and the Machine Spirit of his armour was offended by the damage it had taken and refused to tell him anything. His vision swam as the Autosenses reset and recalibrated, shifting angles and depths as it tried to restore itself. Memnos could do little about it; he was in no position to commence blessings upon his armour, not when he was buried in the ruins of the battle.

Memnos could remember the desperate fight in the viaduct, the overwhelming swarms of Genestealers rushing towards them and the frantic flight of his comrades. He could remember holding the line, trying to buy a few more precious moments for the evacuation. He had been swarmed, his plate and body violated by claws and talons, penetrating his body and tearing at his implants. He had expected to die but then there had been an explosion. The Melta bombs must have done more damage than expected for half the viaduct's roof had come crashing down, burying Memnos in rubble and leaving him for dead.

Memnos had little idea if any of his comrades had escaped, he did not know if they had reached the Monument and completed their mission or fallen to the claws of the Genestealers. There was no way for him to find out and nothing he could do to aid them. The knowledge of his impotence gnawed at him, it was not in the nature of an Astartes to be helpless. His training and Hypno-indoctrination demanded he rise and fight, everything he had ever been taught screamed at him to move but he couldn't, there was no strength left in him.

Memnos was an Apothecary and a part of his mind drifted into a clinical state, examining his condition from a detached perspective. The fact that his body hadn't healed itself was grim news. An Astartes' implants should be able to repair almost anything. A Space Marine was hard to put down but next to impossible to keep down. Mysterious implants, reinforced bones, a secondary heart, all engineered to get them up and fighting again. Anything that didn't kill a Transhuman outright should be repairable.

Memnos judged his bones were broken in many places and his flesh battered and bruised, while his head span from heavy impacts. His implants must be damaged for them not to be repairing the trauma, but without surgery there was no way for him to inspect them. His arms and shoulders were free of the debris but he couldn't find the strength to unbury the rest of himself. Yet worse than all of this was the fact he couldn't feel his legs, nothing below his lumbar spine could be felt. That was bad, if his spinal cord had been severed then it would require extensive augmetic work and neural shunts to reroute the nerve impulses around the break, something that wasn't going to happen here. If the Emperor was smiling upon Memnos it could just be herniated discs squeezing the nerves bundles, but with his armour faltering there was no way to tell.

Memnos lay silently and considered his options. The Apothecary coda recommended an Astartes this traumatised should engage his Sus-an-Membrane and sink into a homeostatic coma. He could lay here for months, years even, waiting for someone to find him. Assuming it was his brethren and not a Genestealer Memnos would be carried back to the Fortress-Monastery and rebuilt, then sent out to war once more. Memnos found no joy in that prospect. What did he have to live for: shame and denigration, eternal self-loathing? Perhaps it was better to not be found, perhaps it was time for him to lay down his burdens. Yes, Memnos' duty was done and he could at last escape his shame, the peace of the grave lay within his grasp.

Suddenly Memnos' autosenses burst into sharp clarity and he beheld the battlefield. Piles of dead Hybrids lay decomposing where they had fallen and amongst them lay three Primaris Intercessors. A sharp stab of recrimination tore through Memnos at the sight. Their gene-seed was unharvested, the holy Progenoids which were essential to the creation of future generations of Space Marines. Gifts from the Emperor, the blood of their Primarch and a Brother's legacy unto the future, there was no more precious a treasure than they. The sacred trust of the Apothecary order was to collect and preserve the Progenoids, keeping them safe from all harm. Memnos had already failed to collect several Brother's legacies but from these three Brothers an entire squad could be born. Doubly vital since they were Primaris, the new order meant to eclipse the Firstborn Astartes.

Memnos' duty was clear; he couldn't die until he had harvested the Progenoids. His hands rose feebly, shaking with palsy but after only a few seconds they fell back to the ground. Memnos did not have the strength to free himself, his vitality was spent. He was done. Memnos' head rolled to the left and he breathed, "I… I can't… I'm too..."

It was then that Memnos realised that someone was looking at him. He saw a thin pair of legs standing next to him, leading up to a pale body. His eyes rose higher and he saw a young boy in a short shrift, marked with the icon of the Storm Heralds. The child had a shaven head and a face filled with sorrow and pain. Memnos' hearts froze at the impossible sight for he recognised this child. It was Erad son of Erath, one of his experimental subjects. Memnos had inflicted dishonourable experiments upon this child, implanting the Aspirant with perverted Gene-seed and timing how long it took him to die. A betrayal of the Brotherhood of the Chapter, the sacred trust that bound Space Marine to Space Marine, even down to the lowliest Aspirant. Erad had placed his trust in Memnos and the Apothecary had repaid him with cruelty and malice.

Erad said nothing, merely staring at the Apothecary with accusation burning in his eyes. A tiny part of Memnos' mind knew that he was hallucinating, dredging up old memories in his delirious state. Yet the greater part of his spirit ached with shame and guilt. The betrayal of Brotherhood the Apothecary order had inflicted on this boy and others like him had been a disgrace, they had forsaken their sacred trust and played gods with the lives of innocents. Memnos could see them all, all three thousand, seven hundred and thirty names were etched into his memory. He could never forget them, he wouldn't allow it.

Erad was gone but another ghost replaced him, and another. Each of Memnos' victims returning to haunt him and every one of them bearing accusation in their eyes. Memnos' shame burned hotter than ever. How could he think of letting himself die, how could he think to know peace after what he had done? He hadn't earned the right to forget his shame; he hadn't earned the right to die. He had a duty yet unfulfilled and to admit defeat was an insult to all those he had wronged.

Memnos' hands reached out once more and dug Ceramite digits into the stone of the floor. He tensed and searing agony tore through him as a part of him pleaded for this torment to cease. Yet he gritted his teeth and snarled, "I deserve this pain." His arms heaved and his back erupted into fire, searing claws of anguish tearing his body apart from the inside out. Agony, unbearable and all-encompassing, tore through Memnos, making him feel like he was being ripped in half but he only redoubled his efforts. He pulled for all he was worth as he wept, "Erad… Babboa… Kinta… Miwaq… Heyia… Virde…"

The names of his victims drove him on, forcing his limbs to move and then with a screech of Ceramite upon rock Memnos' legs slithered from their prison. The pain did not relent and he could not feel his legs, but he forced himself to crawl forward, dragging himself hand over hand across the filthy floor. He reached the first Primaris and his limbs quivered but he forced himself to release the clamps of the Breastplate then placed his Narthecium over the hearts. The drill-bit extended at a mental command and he gritted his teeth as the juddering saw jerked his damaged frame about. He sawed through the fibre-bundle undersheath and the reinforced ribcage, then a small mechandrite shot into the gaping wound he had made and neatly excised the Progenoid from the surrounding tissue. An auto-recall clamp pulled it free and deposited it in a sterile canopic jar, storing the Gene-seed in preserving fluids.

Memnos repeated the procedure on the throat, then detached the canopic jar and clamped it to his waist, before slotting in a new one. One Brother's legacy had been saved but two more remained. He forced himself to drag his useless form over to the next body, feeling his victims staring at him all the while. His body was broken but his will was unyielding, compelling him to continue until he had all three sets of Gene-seed in his keeping. Then he flopped back, noticing this last Brother had been carrying the Demolition charges. Memnos' duty was fulfilled and now he could allow himself to die.

He lay on his front, staring at the hole he had cut into the dead Primaris and waiting for death to claim him. Yet something was nagging at him. His victims were pointing at something, they were pointing into the hole in the corpse. Memnos couldn't fathom why they were doing it, but they were insistent, jabbing fingers into the hole. Memnos' head craned about and he frowned as he saw the gory chest cavity laid bare. Lungs, hearts, liver, implants, all in perfect detail.

A cold rush ran through Memnos as he realised what his ghosts were trying to tell him. Inside the dead Primaris was a unique implant, something a regular Astartes didn't have. The Belisarian Furnace, that tiny node filled with Hyper-adrenaline and Aggression-boosters. It gave a Primaris a last burst of vitality, fuelling their zeal for a short period and boosting their implant's functioning, increasing strength and cell-regeneration in the recipient. If Memnos could extract those chemicals then he could steal that power for himself.

With shaking hands Memnos extended a tiny needle from his Narthecium and inserted it into the Furnace, drawing forth a cocktail of genically-engineered stimulants. He drained the implant dry and directed the soup into a syringe. His head was swimming but he persisted, filling a vial with the mysterious gift of Belisarius Cawl and then he detached it and leaned his neck over, preparing to inject himself.

He paused as a caution occurred to him. Primaris Marines had other implants: the Sinew Coils to strengthen their ligaments, the Magnificat to amplify and regulate the workings of the other implants. Without that extra augmentation a Transhuman body would turn against itself, doing untold damage to the vital organs. This cocktail was never intended for a mere Astartes to use, one lacking the strengthening and stabilising influence of the other implants. There was no telling what this potion would do to Memnos, it may heal him or it may kill him. Either way one thing was certain: it would be an agonising experience.

Memnos' jaw set as his ghosts stared at him. He had failed them once and would never do so again. Pain, agony and torment were nothing when set against his shame. He would not shirk from pain, he had sworn to suffer whatever torments fate saw fit to place upon him but this… this was something else. Memnos hesitated as he wrestled with the decision but then he looked into the many eyes of his ghosts and his lips parted as he snarled, "I get what I Frakking deserve."

Memnos rammed the needle into his neck and pressed the plunger. Three seconds passed and then the fire hit him. His veins burned with torment as the cocktail hit his bloodstream and his eyes boiled in his skull. His implants flared, each one trying to rip its way out of his body as they were forced into a state of hyperactivity, beyond anything they had ever been meant to know. His bones screamed as they were forced to knit, his hearts beat like drums in his chest and his muscles cramped as they swelled inside his armour. His back arched as the tissues were driven to correct themselves, the potion brute-forcing his body into a healing state beyond the bounds of sanity. No Astartes was meant to undergo such an experience, without the Magnificat his body could not process the chemicals thundering through his veins, without the Sinew Coils his ligaments quivered like bowstrings. His conventional Oolitic Kidney could not clear this foreign chemical from his blood, nothing could stop it running its course.

Memnos let loose a scream of pure agony as a red mist descended over his eyes. Memnos' mind filled with red rage, his sanity dissolving in a flood of aggression-boosters and hyper-adrenaline, replaced with a savage urge to kill and slay. His reason fell apart and his legs jerked, finally responding to commands. He rose to his feet with a roar of savage rage, bellowing with mad fury as he sought to vent his pain in a red-hot rush of violent aggression. Memnos had just enough presence of mind to snatch up the bag of demolition charges, then he was running.

He sprinted into the darkness, seeking an enemy to fight, any enemy. The throes of rabid rage carried Memnos away into the dark, racing towards the faint sounds of battle. He did not know where he was going or how long this artificial madness would endure, but the pounding of his hearts would not let him turn aside. Memnos was racing to war and he would kill anything he found when he got there.

Behind him his ghosts faded away, leaving only silence in the deeps places of the world.


	44. Chapter 44

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 44**

Flanking fire pattered upon the brickwork above his head, spraying Persion with brickdust. It was coming from a balcony set across a small square within the Jade Citadel, from a knot of Hybrids using the delicate railing for cover. Persion could see their heads lurking below the fluted metalwork, poking over the top just long enough to let off a volley of las-shots before ducking back. Overhead the red sun was blocked out by the clouds of ash and dust spewing from the battlefield, creating a grim world of twilight where shadows loomed large.

Another shot chipped the stone over his head but Persion didn't duck. The Hybrids were hasty in their shooting and were not taking the time to aim, merely blazing randomly without risking their lives. It wasn't meant to kill him, merely slow him down. Next to him Brother Tanath hefted his mark II bolt rifle and said, "I can take the shot."

"I've got it," Persion replied as he lifted his pistol and let loose a volley. Hefty bolt rounds struck the flimsy metal of the balcony, punching through with ease to detonate on the other side. The Hybrids collapsed with shrapnel buried in their veins while blood and piss began to run off the balcony, dripping onto the mosaic floor. Ruining its splendour with bodily effluents. Persion cared not, He had already turned his back on the site and marched away, Intercessors in tow.

Tanath was sweeping back and forth with his rifle as he asked, "Do we hold here?"

"Negative," Persion replied, "Anyone who can make it to the fallback point is there already. This area belongs to the enemy. We need to regroup."

Over the last hour the defenders of the Jade Citadel had conducted a fighting withdrawal back to the inner courtyards, desperately seeking to regroup and present a coordinated defence. Yet the Genestealers hadn't been prepared to let them go unmolested and had poured over the abandoned wall, trying to overrun the defenders as they fled. It had fallen to the Space Marines to delay them, buying time for the mortals to reach the rendezvous. Persion had slain scores of Genestealers, forcing the enemy to pay in blood for every metre but he was keenly aware it was not enough to stop them. Countless enemies poured through the Jade Citadel, seeking to finish the Imperials. The cult was closing in for the kill.

Persion jogged through the corridors and gardens of the lavish palace, now all ruined and stained by war. He led his new Brothers to the inner courtyard with confident steps, knowing time was of the essence. Soon they reached their destination, a wide-open area in the heart of the Jade Citadel. To call it a courtyard was a joke, for it was nearly a mile wide and half as long. Beyond it lurked the most vital assets of government, the void shield generators and the Governor's personal quarters. The courtyard protected that last bastion, a perfect killing ground any attacker must cross, devoid of cover.

On the far side, the Imperial survivors were setting up their last line of defence behind Sandbagged emplacements, where the mortals lurked clutching their lasrifles and autoguns. Palace guards, Arbites, PDF squads and criminals, all fearfully looking for the first sign of the enemy. Among them heavy weapons loomed, gunners grim-faced as they clung to their autocannons and Heavy Bolters. There were also three tanks, the twin Repulsors: Phobos' Light and Deimos' Shadow and the Punisher on which someone had hastily daubed, 'Reaper'.

Persion jogged nearer and saw Zeax had beaten him to the courtyard. His Devastators presenting their guns to the north, waiting for the fight to begin. With the Sergeant was Marshal Gunnah and little Otlie, looking fierce as always. Persion ran up to them and called, "The enemy is right behind us."

"Then there's no time to waste," Otlie declared, "Get ready to fight men."

Zeax waved his Devastators to prepare as he barked, "Let's do this!"

The nearby mortals swallowed nervously and sweated in fear but Persion paid them no mind as he looked at the girl and said, "Battle is no place for a child."

Otlie's eyes narrowed as she spat, "I won't cower with my mother and that fat Viscount. I will fight and die on my feet, not pissing myself on my knees."

"Ha!" Marshal Gunnah cried loudly, "A child puts these wastrels to shame. Look at yourselves men, a little girl outstrips you in courage!"

The nearby men scowled but their grips tightened, determined not to be shamed. Persion had no words to comfort them so said, "This is it then: our last stand."

Gunnah leaned in and quietly asked, "Your fancy codex have any advice regarding fighting in a last stand?"

Persion muttered, "Yes: Don't get trapped in one."

Persion turned to look over his forces one last time and he saw Brother Aspa leaning out of Phobos' Light and so he asked, "Need something?"

Aspa replied, "Someone to work the turret, the Machine Spirit is proud but it's no match for a Brother's eye."

"I'll do it," Persion said, "Tanath, man Deimos Shadow. Make every shot count."

Hurriedly the Lieutenant stepped through the Repulsor's grav-fields, feeling them buffet him on all sides. He had always loathed these new-fangled machines but right now he was thankful for their stout armour and many guns. He wiggled into the turret and gripped the controls of the las-talon as he stuck his head out of the hatch, nearly bashing his helm on the attached ironhail stubber. The Repulsor also boasted hull-mounted dual-lascannons, storm bolters on either flank and auto-grenade launchers. Such firepower could make a real difference in the coming battle.

Persion could see everything from his elevated position and swept the turret left and right, testing its responses. It was fast and smooth and took only a portion of his attention to operate, the rest spent on assessing the battle. A Transhuman mind could multitask with ease, letting a commander act simultaneously as a gunner without any hint of distraction. Not that there would be much to command. Everyone was here and they knew their roles, there were no reinforcements to be had, no fancy manoeuvres and nowhere else to fallback to. This was where they would make their stand. Persion wondered if he could have done anything else to avoid this fate but knew it was pointless to second-guess himself, they were here and they would fight to the last man.

There was a deep rustle on the far side of the courtyard and then the distant arches exploded with a wall of Genestealers. They leapt from the shadows in teeming multitudes, swarming from every opening in their thousands. They moved as one, a swarm driven by a single will, all racing to reach the Imperials. Persion saw they were a mixture of bloodied curs from the assault on the walls and new, fresh blood without scars. But they all shared the same murderous look in their eyes.

Persion's response was simple, he cried aloud, "Open Fire!" As one the line of Imperial emplacements let rip, sending a screaming torrent of rounds and las into the packed mass of foes. Heavy Bolters thundered, Autocannons spat shells, lascannons blazed brilliantly and missile launchers sent hurtling rockets into the foe. Smaller arms joined the barrage, mowing down enemies in all directions with sheer weight of firepower. Hybrids fell before the onslaught, culled by the hundred and their oozing corpses littered the ground like confetti. They were punched off their feet and blown apart by the barrage, cut down before they drew a drop of blood. Yet this was not a victory, for Persion knew this was but a distraction.

Behind the wall of living shields the Genestealers were hastily setting up their own Heavy Weapons and in under a minute had begun to return fire. Missiles and shells flew over the heads of their comrades, coming to land on the frantic defenders.

Now it was the turn of the Imperials to die. Bodies collapsed over the sandbags, weeping blood as their dead eyes stared upwards into the ashen sky. Weapons fell to the ground from lifeless hands, robbing the defence of vital firepower. Gaping holes were torn in the defence and the Genestealers surged forward.

"Counter-fire!" Persion snarled as he twisted the controls and his turret spun to bear on the Heavy weapons of the foe. A jabbed thumb on the rune saw the las-talon flare, sending pulses of rapid shots across the courtyard. Intended to punch through the skin of light vehicles and aircraft the shots ripped the gunners to shreds, tearing their Heavy Bolter in half. Persion snarled in triumph but now the Genestealers had learned to be wary of the tanks and redirected their fire.

Armour piercing Missiles smashed into the Repulsor, shaking Persion's bones, but the reinforced glacis plate held true. He clung to his controls as the incoming fire doubled, refusing to duck as he twisted and fired again and again, blasting apart heavy weapons left and right. He was joined in this endeavour by the driver Aspa, who fired the hull Lascannons and from Deimos' shadow. Lethal firepower was traded across the square, culling many and leaving strewn corpses piled up on both sides.

Persion fired as fast as he was able as he shouted, "Keep firing, give them everything you've got!" Persion saw the enemy was advancing, with the defender's firepower dwindling the mobs of Hybrids and Purestrains could advance unopposed. They crawled ever nearer, braving the diminishing volleys to close. Persion knew if they got into melee combat it was all over, they would overrun the defence and kill every last loyal soul. Only the Storm Heralds were keeping them at bay, the Astartes standing as unbreakable bulwarks in the midst of battle, keeping the defenders facing forward by their sterling example.

Then a stray frag missile flew into an Autocannon nest and burst, spraying shrapnel in all directions. The gun fell silent and the horde slipped even closer as Persion yelled, "Someone man that sodding gun!" He saw Sergeant Zeax turn towards the position but someone beat him to it. Otlie Bassail vaulted the sandbags and grabbed the blood-soaked handles of the cannon. She planted both feet firmly, bracing her tiny frame with a wide stance as she squeezed the triggers. The Autocannon thundered in response, the barrel jerking to and fro as the small girl wrestled with its ferocious recoil. It hardly mattered; the foe was so densely packed she hit them anyway. Otlie clung to the gun with unshakable resolve as she screamed, "Loaders, get me some Frakking loaders!"

Zeax and Persion paused as they glanced at each other in shared bemusement, then they turned back to the fight and resumed killing. Persion saw the Genestealers were nearly upon the faltering defence and in moments they would pounce. Persion was about to let go the las-talon and reach for the ironhail stubber but then there was a thunderous roar and a hail of rounds blitzed the frontage of the foe.

From the corner of his eye Persion saw Reaper, the Leman Russ Punisher lighting up its assault cannon and heavy bolters in a furious onslaught. Lieutenant Cibbons had waited for the optimal moment, when it was impossible to miss and the Genestealers were slaughtered by his attack. Tongues of flames erupted from every barrel as soaring tracers ploughed into flesh and out the other side. Hybrids were torn in half by the barrage, their tops sheared from their legs by scything rounds while heavy bolter shots blew bodies apart. The packed foe parted before Reaper, blown away like leaves on the wind and Lieutenant Cibbons stuck his head out the hatch to cry, "The Emperor's vengeance is upon you!"

Persion saw the danger too late to warm him. From the back of the enemy horde a sniper shot flared, a single bullet crossing the distance in a heartbeat to blow Cibbon's brains out. The Lieutenant fell back into the interior of the tank, leaving the contents of his skull painted over Reaper's sides. The tank did not stop firing but its shots became diffused and less focused, each gunner firing randomly without direction. Its proud defiance withering without direction.

The Genestealers hissed at the sight and closed over the gaps in their ranks, making for the Imperial's line once more. Persion knew the end was in sight, no matter how many he killed they could not stop all these foes at once. The bulk of the Cult must be present in this assault, bringing their full might to bear on one target. For a mad moment he wished for an Orbiting Strike Cruiser, so he could call down fire to end the enemy along with himself but it was a vain dream. Still he took comfort in the thought that at least they had bled the alien menace badly, robbing it of essential strength. Whatever Imperial retribution was coming would find a drained and spent foe awaiting them.

Persion fired again and again as he yelled, "The end is in sight. Prepare to sell your lives dearly, Brothers!"

"For the Emperor!" Zeax bellowed over the din of battle.

The moment of doom hung over them as the horde closed, but then there was an almighty roar from behind them. Persion's eyes lifted and he saw a monster emerging into the light. A hunch-backed giant that loomed over its lesser kin like a parent over their children. Its black talons were long and razor-sharp and a dripping tongue hung out of a maw filled with fangs. Its head was swollen and bulbous yet it moved with deadly grace and power, lethality oozing out of every pore. The cult let free a cry of welcome and bloodlust as their Patriarch joined them, intending to witness the victory with its own eyes.

However Persion was not daunted, his lips drew back over his teeth as he commanded, "Drivers, point us at that thing and stop for nothing."

The Repulsor lurched under his boots as Tanath called over from his own turret, "We are making a charge?!"

Persion's eyes didn't waver from the Patriarch as he growled, "This day may see our end, but I want to slay that monster before I die."


	45. Chapter 45

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 45**

…And tried to press into his hearts but Memnos grabbed the clawed hands and heaved them down his breastplate as his helm drove into its face. The Purestrain staggered back, a glazed look in its black eyes but Memnos held it upright by the arms and drew his head back, then powered forward once more. The second impact broke the ridged bone over its forehead, causing black blood to run down its face and chin but Memnos was relentless and headbutted it a third time. Finally shards of bone were driven into its skull, slicing the brain within to pieces and the Purestrain collapsed. Memnos was left with blood and brain decorating his faceplate but he spun about as another Hybrid came at him with a bayonet and…

…staggered as the bullet tore through the back of his knee but in return his blade shot forth, stabbing the Hybrid through the throat. She fell next to her abominable kindred and Memnos looked up to see another Purestrain turn its gaze upon him, its… The walls blurred by as Memnos dropped into the plaza, landing feet first on the Heavy Weapons team. Their fragile bones shattered as the weight of a Space Marine hit, crushing them into paste. Ahead lay the walls, shattered and broken, and Memnos knew… the slope slipped under his feet as he raced up the crumbling breach, desperately trying to reach the top before it was too late. His Brothers were ahead and he had to… the weight of the pack nearly bowled him over but he fought on, breaking the Hybrid's skulls with the shorn plasteel bar in his hand, bludgeoning them to death with raw savagery. He laid many low but then a Purestrain loomed before him, rending claws reaching out to…

He leaned against the wall and gasped for air, feeling his body burning. Something was wrong, something was very wrong, but Memnos couldn't understand what it was. His muscles cramped as he had never known, his bones ached and his implanted organs burned hot in his body as they fought the foreign chemicals coursing through him. Memnos couldn't form a coherent picture of what was happening, his mind was a swirling fog and images rose from the mist only to vanish again, leaving no trace of their passing. Places and faces swam before his eyes, images of him fighting Genestealers under the ground and then in the broken streets. Were they real or were they imagined, he could not tell the difference. His recollection of time and places was choppy and broken, snipets that spilled from his fingers as he tried to grasp them.

Memnos forced his mind to focus as he tried to pin down hard facts. He was covered in Genestealer blood, so he had been fighting someone, that part had happened. His plate was rent and torn in many places, so it hadn't been an easy struggle. In one hand he gripped a spar of plasteel, ripped from Emperor-only knew where, and in the other was a notched cleaver he didn't recall picking up. Across his shoulders was a satchel of demolition charges that he had no recollection of finding and by the piles of dead Hybrids around him the Apothecary had been fighting to protect.

Another fact intruded into his consciousness. The walls around him were a delicate pink marble and the corridor was lined with graceful arches from which hung potted plants. That wasn't right, he had been heading towards the Monument to Reunification. Yes, that was it he had been part of a mission to bring the tower down. So why was he back in the Jade Citadel, surrounded by Genestealer corpses? Had he been injured and carried back to the palace. It didn't sound right and didn't explain why his blood was burning and his head swimming.

A memory surfaced in the swirling morass of his mind. Being buried in a tunnel, dragging himself out and then… His mind seized up as he recalled siphoning the Primaris' Furnace and injecting himself. A cold shiver ran through his soul as he understood his body was flooded with foreign chemicals, a stimulant his Genhanced frame wasn't designed to process. Few things could affect an Astartes' physiology but the secrets of the Primaris went beyond any of them. His implants couldn't clear the strange cocktail and every organ in his body was forced into a state of agitation, working well beyond their intended tolerances.

Suddenly there was a distant noise of gunfire and Memnos' world dissolved into red mist. His thoughts fell apart as his body moved of its own accord, seeking out the source of the noise. Hostile faces appeared and disappeared, leaving no impression on his memory. All he could recall were flashes of fighting and bloodshed and the rage, the pounding rage filling his veins and forcing him to move. His body knew only one way to cope with the drug-induced mania, by fighting and killing. Expending the rushing torrent of hormones in a frenzy of slaughter.

He saw a Purestrain looming, fangs exposed as it tried to rip his throat out… three Hybrids firing desperately, their las-shot pinging off his Ceramite as he charged straight through their barrage and dove upon them. His blade plunged into the first's eye while his plasteel bar dashed the brains out of the other. The last one tried to back up but Memnos turned to give chase and… The Frag Grenade fell from clawed fingers as the Hybrid grinned in vindication but Memnos snatched it from the air as his other hand clenched around the jawline. The jaw dislocated with a pop and Memnos forced the grenade into its mouth, before he hurled the Hybrid from him. The Genestealer barely had time to open its eyes in terror before the grenade detonated, spraying fragments of skull all over the delicate walls.

Memnos struggled to hold onto any sense of where he was and who he was fighting. They came and went in a torrent of flashing images. His body was bleeding in scores of places but he did not feel it, too lost in his frenzy. His muscles ached with exertion but he could not stop running. He was swept up in the rush, killing mindlessly like the insane Berserkers of Chaos. A Primaris would have been depleted long ago, their extra organs countering the effects of the Furnace before it became dangerous, but Memnos could only ride out the rush for as long as it lasted.

He had no idea how long the swirling madness continued but he was brought up short when a Ceramite fist rammed into his faceplate. His head snapped back and his vision swam as he saw Jediah glaring at him, barking, "Memnos, snap out of it!"

The Apothecary had no idea where the Lieutenant had come from, or how he had appeared in the Jade Citadel. Memnos tried to say something but all that came out was a feral snarl. Behind the Lieutenant a gaggle of mortals and Reivers lurked, along with Sergeant Gotram who hissed, "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Jediah snapped, "Memnos, why are you here? Have you seen Yones or Persion?"

Memnos' only reply was to hammer the length of his plasteel bar into Jediah, forcing him back a step, more out of surprise than injury. Jediah rallied in moments but the Apothecary pushed past him and sprinted down another passage. The sound of gunfire and the smell of blood drew him like a magnet to a lodestone and he raced towards it as fast as his feet could carry him. Behind shouts and running boots heralded Jediah and the Reivers following but Memnos paid them no mind, the thunder of his heartbeats in his ears drowning out their cries and only the prospect of more killing held his attention. Even the weight of the demolition charges on his back did not slow him down, their bulk meaningless to his addled mind.

Memnos turned a corner and emerged through an archway into a vast courtyard. The scale of the arena and the shape of the nearby buildings were blurs to him. All he could understand was that there was a battle raging. Everywhere he looked streams of Hybrids and Purestrains were pouring into the courtyard, setting up weapon positions or running towards a distant line of blazing gun emplacements. Memnos could see piles of dead being trampled underfoot by heedless boots, and hear the screams of the dying as they bled out their last. Death and carnage lay in all directions as the madness of war swept over all. It was glorious.

Memnos spied a pair of Hybrids loading a missile nearby and wasted not a moment to fall upon them from behind. They looked up at the last moment, mouths opening in shock before the Apothecary beheaded one with his cleaver and the other he clubbed to the ground with his bar of metal. Nearby Genestealers screamed in alarm but Memnos was upon them in moments, hacking and stabbing with vicious blows. He slew many with his mad charge and the filthy Xenos fell to his fury.

Behind he heard the shouts of Jediah's team as they emerged into the courtyard, racing to keep up with his charge. He heeded them not, seeing only foes waiting to be killed. Reality began to slip again and he saw faces blurring as he hacked at anything that came near him. A face was cleaved in two by his blade, a body fell with a broken neck as he struck with his bar. A Hybrid's skull squished under his boot as he crushed its brains out on the cold, hard floor. Nothing was making any sense anymore, all he could do was fight and kill as the red mist descended.

A Heavy Bolter crew turned his way but he stabbed a Hybrid with both weapons and hefted the body aloft, using it as a shield against the first shell. The body burst as the bolt round detonated, spraying Memnos with… The bodies fell to the ground, spilling entrails and Memnos kicked over the Heavy Bolter before… shooting agony run through him as the claws sank into his guts and the Purestrain hissed evilly into his face. Yet it was cruelly surprised when Memnos' blade slammed under its jaw, punching through the mouth to penetrate the braincase. He forced it away and hissed in pain as the claws pulled free but he had no time to celebrate for… They outnumbered him twenty-to-one but just as they came in for the kill a harsh cry went up as black-clad Arbites fell upon them from behind. Riot shields rebuffing all attacks as shock-mauls struck. Marshal Gunnah smote enemies left and right with cries of Imperial retribution upon his lips. His arm was strong and relentless but he failed to see the Purestrain rising behind him. Rending claws struck and the Marshal went down, frothing blood from the gaping wound where his throat had been. Memnos roared a denial as he threw himself at the… Memnos stood upon the piles of his slain foes and the valiant Arbites, locked in their death grapples, bellowing his fury at the next wave to come at him. He was alone, but live or die he had paved the road to hell with the bones of his enemies.

Memnos was lost to all bounds of sanity, he knew only the red mist of rage and the thundering of his hearts. Then the fog parted and he beheld a sight that cut through his madness. Before him a giant monster loomed, its shadow alone casting its kin to shame. A hunch-backed spine was covered in chitin and a black tongue hung from its jaw as claws as long as a mortal's leg lashed about. It was the Patriarch, the heart and soul of the cult and the most dangerous creature among them.

Set against it were the burning remains of a pair of tanks, a Leman Russ Punisher and a Repulsor. Both cast to the ground and rent by terrible wounds in their armour. A third Repulsor was edging around the hulks of its kin, trying to hold back the waves of Genestealers trying to overwhelm it while its turret spat defiance at the Patriarch. Yet that was not what shocked Memnos out of his frenzy.

Standing on the burning remains of the first Repulsor was Persion. He was battered and bloodied but he fought on, his burning Friction Axe fending off blows from black talons. The Patriach loomed over him but he would not yield, he stood his ground in the face of death, fighting with every fibre of his being. The Lieutenant's last stand was at hand and it was a deathmatch as glorious as any in the Chapter's history.

From not too far away Memnos heard Jediah shouting something but the Apothecary did not look for him. Persion was hopelessly outmatched and before he knew what he was doing the Apothecary's feet were moving. He ran for all he was worth towards the duel, scrabbling for every last morsel of speed. The cocktail of drugs in his system still burned within his veins, the mysterious elixir not yet run its course. He could only trust it would last long enough to give him the strength to intervene. He was going to need it. Then the red mist descended once more and Memnos threw himself at the Patriach's back, a cry of raw savagery upon his lips as he joined the fray.


	46. Chapter 46

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 46**

"Evade!" Persion roared as he swung the turret about, "Evade damn it!" Phobos' Light veered sideways, desperately trying to avoid the sweep of those black talons. The grav-machine's turbines howled as it shunted sideways, knocking Persion into the side of the hatch as the claws missed his head by an inch. The Repulsor drifted laterally, its grav-fields knocking down the surrounding mobs of Hybrids and Purestrains. No dainty flyer was this, the tank hammered the ground with its anti-gravitic impulses, liquefying any Genestealer unlucky enough to fall under its bulk. Those few who avoided being killed by the clashing energies were gunned down by the tank's storm bolters, the Machine Spirit auto-targeting knots of foes. Persion paid them no mind, his eyes fixed firmly on the Patriarch.

The progenitor of the Genestealers loomed over the tank, its face warping into an evil grin due to its fangs. It was as big as a Hive Tyrant, with a maw wide enough to swallow a Space marine whole and lethal threat oozed out of every pore. The vicious talons on the ends of each of its four arms glinted in the wan light, promising inevitable death to any who came near.

That had been proven beyond doubt with the death of Reaper. The Leman Russ tank had barrelled straight at the Patriarch, firing wildly, only to be torn apart by those claws. Armour thick enough to shrug off missiles had been peeled apart like a ration pack, the crew inside screaming in terror as they were diced to pieces and set alight by a ruptured Promethium line. Now Reaper's hulk cast a fiery light over the scene, illuminating the Patriarch from below, like a Daemon from hell.

Persion had seen how easily the father of Genestealers had ended a noble tank but he was not daunted. Perison had faced real Daemons and worse in his life and he would be damned if he would cower before any monster. He gripped the turret's controls and yelled, "Tanath, as one: fire!" The two Repulsors discharged their las-talons simultaneously, hammering the Patriarch with coherent light. The Genestealer lord twisted aside but the armour-penetrating shots still punched into its shoulders, leaving cauterised craters in its flesh. Black blood sizzled in the wounds and the Patriarch screamed in pain, making Persion laugh aloud in elation.

Persion cried joyfully, "It can be hurt! Quickly, Aspa, swing about and ready the Lascannons to…" He didn't get to finish for the Patriarch threw its arms wide, and roared a challenge, then it leapt for him. Shimmering grav –fields proved useless as the giant creature pushed through them, its claws lashing out for Persion's head. The Lieutenant ducked at the last possible instant but the talons bit into the mass of the turret he was standing in and ripped the front clean off, taking the las-talon with it. Persion was left in the gaping wreckage of the turret, trying to steady himself as the Repulsor rocked madly. Then the claws lashed out again and tore the port turbine free of its housing.

Phobos' Light screamed as it went into a mad spin, careening out of control. Persion was slammed into the side of the wrecked turret, clinging on for all he was worth as the tank spun wildly. The world blurred and all he could see were sky and ground and sky again, then the corner of the tank hit the ground and dug in, flipping the tank end over end. Persion felt an all-mighty crash slam into him, shaking his genhanced bones and finally the world stopped spinning.

Phobos' Light was laying on its side, with flames pouring out of its engine block. Of the driver there was no sign, dead or trapped Persion could not tell, but he could see the Patriarch perfectly. The father of Genestealers had turned from the wreckage and was angling for Deimos' Shadow, intending to finish the final Repulsor off. Meanwhile the crowds of Hybrids closed in, determined to tear Persion limb from limb.

The lieutenant didn't give them the chance. He braced his feet and reach out, grabbing the Ironhail stubber on its pintle mounting. He heaved with all his strength and the weapon tore free. He clutched it in one arm and started climbing, waddling his bulk over the wreckage until he stood on top of the overturned tank. He set his boots firmly and then brought up the stubber, holding it like a rifle with his augmetic hand as he squeezed the trigger with his left.

The machine gun roared as a tongue of flame ejected from its barrel. Persion nearly lost hold of it, so great was the recoil, but he was transhuman and his strength was equal to the task. A torrent of bullets slammed into the Patriarch, peppering its flank with lead. The Chitin hide withstood the volley but the Patriarch certainly felt the wounds, stinging bites chewing upon its back. Persion kept the trigger down as he gritted his teeth. The barrel was red hot in his metal hand, the sensation transmitted through nerve connections to feel like real pain. Yet he did not stop firing, snarling a furious retort until the magazine ran dry.

The Patriarch turned to face him, fixing him with its black eyes as it forgot the retreating tank. A snarled hiss sent its lesser kin scurrying away and Persion knew he had got its attention. In those eyes was only alien foulness, an all-consuming urge to dominate and corrupt everything, mixed with the rage of personal affront. It saw Persion's defiance and desired to end him once and for all. It would not be content with letting its children end the Space Marine, the Patriarch wanted to do this itself.

Persion dropped the stubber and took up his Friction Axe as he shouted, "You are as stupid as you are ugly!"

It was hardly the noblest battlecry but it goaded the Patriarch into action, leaping forward as it snarled, "Gnnnnargh!"

Persion saw a talon coming at him from the right and swung his axe to deflect the blow. The impact jarred through him but even as it did so another swipe came from the left and tore through his leg. Persion almost staggered as his leg was left with gaping wounds but he refused to fall as another lashing strike came at him and another. Persion was left to fight for his life, swinging his axe about in a swirling defence that left red traces across the vision. The moment consumed Persion and he forgot the wider battle, he let go of his second-guessing and doubts. There was only the fight, only the claws and his axe. Defiance was all he had left and he clung to it, knowing the difference between life and death was measured by millimetres.

He deflected and denied blow after blow, standing his ground in the face of a vicious onslaught but for all his heroic defiance he had but one axe and the foe had four arms. A terrible pain ripped through Persion as a claw sliced his midriff, spilling rich blood and he knew the next blow would finish him. The Patriarch was too fast and too strong, it had him right where it wanted him.

Persion looked up into the grinning face of death and prepared to shout his last words but as the arms raised to end him another person intervened. From nowhere dashed a figure painted in genestealer blood, armed with a cleaver and a bar of metal. It burst from the surrounding scrum with a cry of feral anger and fell upon the Patriarch's leg, hacking and smashing with wild abandon.

"Memnos?!" Persion gasped as the duel paused. He had no idea where the Apothecary had come from and watched in awe as Memnos smote the Chitin hide with a frenzied flurry of blows Persion didn't know he was capable of. Sadly the Patriarch didn't seem impressed, it half-turned towards the annoying gnat biting on its knee, swinging at him with an uppercut that caught him across the breastplate, sending him flying away in a shower of blood. Memnos hit the ground and rolled over, momentarily out of the action and Persion took up his axe, expecting the duel to resume.

Memnos' assault had been thwarted but it had not been pointless. In the momentary respite the nearby horde parted, revealing Jediah, the Reivers and the retinue, all bounding into the fray. Persion's jaw dropped as he beheld the party fall upon the Genestealer lord, their knives and swords flashing. Jediah darted in and hacked at a sinew with his Short Sword, drawing a line of black blood. Sergeant Gotram attacked the other leg, stabbing into a joint with a cry of fury while the others closed in, nipping at its flanks with their knives. Persion saw the Sister of Silence Mortula dance underneath it, slashing upwards with a borrowed blade. More than anything Persion had done this seemed to bother the monster, her Null Aura loathsome to its psychic presence.

Persion lifted his axe and struck out for a shoulder, his elevated position letting him hit higher as he cried, "Where the hell did you come from?!"

Jediah shouted, "You wouldn't believe us!"

"Wherever it is you are welcome," Persion yelled, "Maybe together we can…"

Suddenly the Patriarch roared in anger and its limbs shot out in all directions as it swung its bulk around. Everybody was knocked back by the move, sent sprawling to the ground and Persion staggered as the wreckage under his feet was slammed back and forth. He couldn't help but stagger and in that instant a clawed hand snatched him about the waist and lifted him high. Persion was held aloft, his axe pinned to his side and his left arm uselessly beating on digits as wide as his leg. The Genestealer lifted him high and tipped its head back, opening its maw wide to reveal a black gullet. Persion's eyes widened in horror as he realised it intended to devour him whole, eating him alive. Then he was thrust downwards.

Persion fell towards that black maw but he kicked out with his boots, spreading his feet wide and managed to plant one boot on its nose and the other on the Genestealer's chin. The Patriarch hissed with fury and redoubled its efforts, grinding him down as its jaw snapped shut and opened again. Persion was helpless as he was jerked to and fro, his axe was pinned and his pistol out of reach and his boots were slipping. In another moment he would lose his stance and be forced into that mouth, swallowed alive and there was nothing he could do to stop it. All he could do was try to kick out as he shouted, "Eat me and I'll cut you apart from the inside!"

Death drew near but then there was a savage cry of anger. Memnos had returned and he bounded towards the Patriarch with savage fury, heedless of the fact that he was outmatched. The Apothecary slammed into a leg and made the Patriarch rock back as he ripped and tore with his crude weapons. His brutal assault made small impression but it did make the Patriarch's grip loosen and Persion was able to push his arms out, further weakening the grip.

Then he saw it: Sergeant Gotram, running past Memnos and reaching out to snatch something from his back. Persion saw the Reiver Sergeant heave a bulky satchel back and then lob it, straight at the Lieutenant as he shouted, "Here, use this!"

Persion caught it by the strap and was amazed to see it was a demolition charge, one that was already active and counting down. Persion reacted instantly, swinging his arm over to bring the satchel high and then send it plunging into the black maw beneath his feet as he cried, "We are the Emperor's Storm!"

The demolition charge went straight into that yawning mouth and hit the back of the throat, lodging tight in the larynx. The Patriarch squealed in agony and suddenly Persion was dropping to the ground as he was let go. He hit the ground and rolled over, coming to look straight up as the father of Genestealers thrashed and clawed at its own throat. The giant creature careened about as it choked, feet stomping everywhere as it futilely attempted to dislodge the pack in its throat. It was pointless, its claws could not touch the obstruction and then its time ran out. Persion saw its doom unfold and he drew in a breath to shout, "We are His Wrath!"

An explosion erupted from the Patriarch's mouth, a billowing ball of flame and gore that grew exponentially in a second. Hardened Chitin proved no match for power that could level a building and the Patriarch's head came apart like a balloon bursting, flinging droplets of blood and bone away in a shower of red rain. Flames consumed the upper half of the Genestealer, a blazing fireball that reduced its torso to ashes.

Persion felt the fireball wash over him, searing heat and concussive force battering his frame. Were he not a Space Marine the force of it would have ruptured his lungs and as it was he felt like he was being slammed into the ground by the hammer of a god. Then the flames dissipated and the charred legs of the father of Genestealers collapsed, leaving a sudden silence in its wake.

A momentary pause swept over the battlefield as all witnessed its death, then a wail of utter anguish arose. Persion looked up and saw the Genestealer Cult in the throes of total despair. They fell to their knees and wept, clawing at their own heads and drawing blood in their lamentation. They battered their heads into the ground or put lasguns into their own mouths and pulled the triggers, blowing their brains out. Some ran from the field while others sat and wept with their hands wrapped around their knees as they rocked back and forth. Even a few Purestrains turned on each other, clawing at their kindred in an instinctive battle for dominance. All they knew was sorrow and despair and not one of them was thinking about battling the Imperials.

Persion rose to his feet as the survivors of the confrontation gathered nearer and Sergeant Gotram asked in confusion, "What's happened to them?"

Jediah answered, "Their Broodmind is shattered. They depended on that connection to function and they can't be without it."

Gotram looked out over the weeping horde and questioned, "So what do we do?"

Persion lifted his axe and declared, "We kill them all while they can't fight back. Follow me and show no mercy. For the Imperium, leave none alive!"


	47. Chapter 47

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 47**

Odrin stumbled through the undercity, his feet pounding on the hard stone floor. His thighs were burning and his breath came in short gasps, a tightness in his chest telling him his endurance was running out. Odrin had spent his life strolling through the corridors of power, sitting in meetings or formal gatherings, he hadn't been running assault courses or forced marches and his physical fitness was lacking. Still he persisted, putting one foot in front of the other even though each step sent spikes of agony running up his shins.

Odrin had good reason to flee for he could feel death on his heels. Odrin had fled the battle with the Space Marines as fast as his legs could carry him. He hadn't stayed to see the result, knowing all too well how it would turn out. The Space Marines had proved far more dangerous than he had ever expected, far more dangerous than the Kiith could have known. He had been a fool to think he could stand against the zealots of the Corpse-Emperor and so he had fled at the first sight of them. It wasn't cowardice, he tried to tell himself, his life was useful to the Kiith, valuable even. He had to survive so they could restart somewhere else.

Odrin turned a corner and found himself entering some form of pumping room. The room was dominated by a wide pool of water, into which descended mould encrusted pipes. A stream of water entered through a wide tunnel in the far wall, filling the basin, even as it was emptied. The walls were hung with wet ivy and drooping fronds that dug roots into the crumbling stone while illumination was provided by a line of lumen orbs ringing the corners, only a quarter of which were functioning. The chugging of heavy machinery dominated the environment, machines that had run continuously for centuries, tended to by a blank-eyed servitor that was so grey and withered it may have been here almost as long.

Odrin paused and leant on a wall, gasping for air. His throat burned as he hacked up a gobbet of spittle and let it fall to the ground, watching as it plopped onto the hard stone floor. For long minutes he rested, feeling his heartbeat starting to slow and his head clearing. As his thoughts steadied he reflected that there was one bright spot in this disaster, Tyvis was dead. He had felt her passing through the Broodmind, the sudden cessation of her directing will and rancour, spreading through the gestalt consciousness like a tidal wave. The other members of the Kiith would be bereft without their Magus, but Odrin was buoyant. Her resentment of him had tainted the Broodmind, urging him into wild acts of recklessness. Now she was gone and Odrin's mind was his own.

He thought about everything that had happened and determined that Tyvis had been a fool to wage war directly. The Kiith should never have chanced it, not while the Imperium's Astartes had been on the planet. Yes, they should have gone dark, lurking in the shadows until the Emperor's eyes were elsewhere and they could seize control of the planet unnoticed. Tyvis' blundering had led them to ruin, he told himself. The fact that he had made a great deal of the plans happen was conveniently forgotten, his ego brushing off any hint that his mistakes had played any part in this disaster. He would not be so cavalier next time, he told himself. He would escape, rebuild the Kiith in another city and make his next plans with greater subtly.

Odrin's breath was steady now as he straightened up and tugged down his jacket. He drew in a lungful of air and turned to move on, walking towards a stone bridge that crossed the water basin. He managed three whole steps before a lance of utter woe drove into his brain. He fell to the ground with a cry of anguish, hitting his knees on the ground and nearly falling headfirst into the water. Pain, despair, sorrow and confusion flooded into him, coming not from his own soul but from the Broodmind. He could feel it, feel his kindred's lament coursing through him. Their pain, their loss and their anger battering at his mind and Odrin instantly knew the Patriarch was dead.

How, where, why, these questions did not matter. All that mattered was the Grandfather of the Kiith was gone and without that fundamental connection the Kiith was shattered. Odrin could feel the Broodmind disintegrating, breaking into a million pieces of conflicting emotions. Every member of the Kiith screamed madly through their connection, their minds once united in purpose now tearing at each other in panic and confusion. His kin were fleeing in terror, or falling to their knees in woe or committing suicide. Some of the Purestrains were even turning on each other, attacking their own kind in an instinctive bid for dominance and Odrin could feel it all.

Odrin was drowning in despair but he refused to yield. He gritted his teeth and closed his mind to the agony, shutting the connection between them. Only Odrin could do this, for only he had any experience of acting alone. The rest of the Kiith depended on the Broodmind, they were born into its embrace and had never known a day without its guidance. They could not function without that imposed compulsion to obey, but Odrin could. He had spent years operating alone, a covert agent for the Kiith, trained and trusted to act on his own. He knew what it was to be alone in his head.

Odrin shut his mind to the cries of his kin and silence filled his soul. Then he realised he was about to die. A scaly form was swimming towards him, barely above the surface of the water. A Crotalid, heading towards the spot where he lay. Odrin jerked backwards before it could reach him, rolling away before those hungry jaws could snatch him up. The Crotalid slowed in disappointment then sank out of sight, waiting for its next meal to appear.

Odrin swallowed in fear, he had seen reports of the beasts in the undercity but done nothing about it. They had only presented a problem to low-caste workers and criminals, not a cause for concern to the ruling elite and so not his problem. Odrin wrung his hands as if they had been bitten and eyed the water fearfully. He glanced about, looking for another way out, but none presented itself, he could chance the bridge or going back the way he had come.

Odrin certainly wasn't going to head back towards the Space Marines so gathered his meagre courage and stood up. He stepped onto the bridge; both arms held out from his sides and carefully began to walk over the span. His eyes were fixed on the water as he placed one foot in front of the other, balancing like he was on a tightrope, even though the bridge was wide enough for two men to walk side by side. To his utter relief no monster arose from the depths, no hungry maw seeking to devour him and so he increased his speed, growing more confident with every second.

He was almost half-way across when a sharp cry rang out, "That's far enough!"

Odrin froze as he realised someone had found him. He held his hands out to his sides and called out, "I mean you no harm."

"Turn around slowly," the voice replied.

Odrin did as he was bid and came completely around. Standing at the foot of the bridge was a short woman in a bodyglove, bearing a lascarbine in a low grip that was yet unwavering. Odrin gulped as he held Inquisitor Vevara, with an angry look upon her face and a gun pointed straight at him. Odrin knew she intended to kill him but two things leapt out at him. She hadn't shot him in the back, meaning she wanted him alive for the moment. The other thing was that no Space Marines were accompanying her, meaning he had a chance at coming out of this alive.

Odrin faced the Inquisitor and affected a smile as he said, "My lady, how nice to see you."

Vevara's eyes didn't soften as she growled, "Lose the pistol."

Odrin clenched his jaw but he did as he was bid. He drew the laspistol from his belt with a finger and thumb grip, keeping well away from the trigger. Then he cast it into the water, seeing it sink under the surface with a soft plop. He watched it disappear with a reluctant sigh, but then resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't that fast a draw anyway. Shooting Vevara had never been his best option; his finest weapons had always been words.

Odrin fixed his gaze on the woman and asked, "How may I be of service?"

Vevara kept the weapon pointed at him as she growled, "A lot of people died this day, because of you."

Odrin cocked his head and remarked, "An Inquisitor concerned with the loss of innocent lives? How unlikely."

Vevara retorted, "The God-Emperor's servants are no stranger to necessary losses, but never wastefully or without purpose."

Odrin snorted, "Keep telling yourself that. I've seen the reports of planets scoured to the bedrock, worlds wiped out for a single heresy. The Inquisition wastes lives like a fool does coin."

Vevara lifted her aim a hair as she snapped, "We are not here to discuss the Imperium but your treachery. Tell me how far your cult has infiltrated Pascum's society."

Odrin smiled as he replied, "Ah, you intend to pump me for information before you kill me. Yes, I have such knowledge, but it comes with a price."

Vevara pointedly hefted her gun as she retorted, "You are in no position to bargain."

Odrin shrugged, "If I tell you everything you will kill me outright."

"If you don't I will shoot you anyway," Vevara hissed.

"A thorny problem," Odrin allowed, "Still, perhaps there is room to strike a bargain. I can be useful, I can give you many things, if you let me serve you."

"You want to work for me?!" Vevara laughed, "You must think me a fool. You're a Genestealer, you can't be trusted."

Odrin shook his head as he replied, "I was born to serve, I never had a choice in the matter who it was. I can serve another master, I can serve you. I have no allegiance to the Genestealers, not truly. All I want is to live."

Vevara stated coldly, "You lie convincingly, you might even believe it yourself. But your genes are tainted with alien filth. It's in your blood and bones. Sooner or later you will turn on me; it is in your nature."

Odrin sensed she wasn't convinced so pressed, "Let me prove it, let me share my information. The Kiith, the cult as you call it, isn't planetwide. It's concentrated here in this city. The rest of the rebels in the other cities and in orbit are but nothing dupes, patriotic idiots fighting for a cause I made up. I can provide you with names of my allies and agents, surely that is worth letting me live."

Vevara paused as she mused, "That is valuable information…"

Odrin grinned, "Then we have an understanding."

Vevara's eyes narrowed as she said, "I might consider it, if you tell me what you have done with my Eldar servant."

"The… the Eldar?" Odrin stammered in confusion, "I haven't seen him, not a hint of his presence."

Vevara glared at him as she hissed, "You better be sure of that."

"I tell you I haven't seen him," Odrin protested, "It's the truth I swear it."

"You are either telling the truth or you're a better liar than I gave you credit for," Vevara allowed.

Odrin nodded frantically and said, "I helped you, so… so now you let me live."

Vevara frowned as she mused, "Manaar's disappearance wasn't your doing, he vanished on his own accord. How very suspicious. Whatever scheme he was sent here for must have been completed. Warp take him and that wretched Farseer, I knew they were playing me somehow but I thought if I played along he would slip up and reveal his true intent. I need to find out what they were up to. Thank you Odrin, you've been most helpful, but sadly you've outlived your usefulness."

"Wait!" Odrin yelled as he saw Vevara's intent but it was too late.

The Inquisitor's finger twitched and her gun discharged. A single lasbolt shot forth, crossing the distance to slam into his chest. The noise of the gunshot echoed through the chamber, a sharp snap-hiss that reverberated in the space like a fading drumbeat. Blazing heat erupted in Odrin's heart as the laser energy struck him, flash-fusing his internal organs into a charred lump. Odrin staggered as he was shot, hands grasping at his cauterised heart and he let out a strangled, "Urgh."

His legs gave out under him and he fell over, hitting the edge of the bridge then rolling off to plunge into the water. Coldness enveloped him as he sank into the icy depths, his ambitions and scheme fading as his brain shut down. Darkness and cold took him but he felt movement in the water as something large and scaly swam towards him. He had time for one last thought that he died as he had lived: alone. Then sharp teeth closed on his body and dragged him down into the endless night. Death took Odrin's soul as the Crotalid took his flesh and he knew no more.


	48. Chapter 48

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 48**

The courtyard still stank of death. Even after three days the lingering stench of rotting bodies, opened bowels and burnt war machines filled the air. Teams of mortals wore neckerchiefs over their faces as they shifted the piled dead, the civilians finally making themselves useful after the fighting had died down. They looked sick and weary, glazed-eyed by the horrors they had seen and they had not even been present for the decisive confrontation.

Persion walked among the labouring teams of mortals and was pleased with his work. The death of the Patriarch had thrown the Genestealer Cult into disarray, leaving them bereft not only of leadership but of fighting spirit. A furious counter-charge by the Space Marines had torn them to shreds, the few who tried to fight back swiftly dispatched by the righteous vengeance of the Emperor's Finest. Persion couldn't even call it a battle, it had been an outright massacre.

Many of the Genestealers had been culled but the remainder had fled, running for their pathetic lives. Persion hadn't been willing to let them go, so the Storm Heralds had given pursuit and slain everyone they could catch. The filth had fled to the ruins of the city but had found no shelter. The Space Marines had hunted them relentlessly, determined to exact vengeance. After a day and a night of massacring Genestealers Persion had ordered the squads to spilt up. The survivors of the Cult were too dispersed to find in any great number. Persion had determined to send his squads out to secure key objectives while he had sought out the few surviving pockets of loyalist PDF and told them they answered to him now.

Persion saw a flash of white in the courtyard and moved nearer. He saw Apothecary Memnos shifting a pile of dead bodies, his face hardly any better in colour than the corpses. Memnos had crashed hard after the battle, passing out into a drug-induced torpor. Persion had never seen a Space Marine pass out like that and it had been two days until the Apothecary woke up and explained what he had done. He still looked cold and shivery, his Transhuman body not yet back to full capacity.

Memnos turned over another body then rocked back and hissed, "Damnation."

Persion stopped next to the pile, seeing what he had found and sighed, "Marshal Gunnah."

Memnos nodded, "I vaguely remembered seeing him die in the fighting. I wished it was just a hallucination but it was true."

Persion agreed, "I guessed as much when we couldn't find him after the battle. Without him the Arbites are leaderless."

Memnos stood up and brushed off his hands as he lamented, "I'll add his name to the list. At this point it's quicker to count the survivors than the slain."

Persion eyed the morbid Apothecary warily and commented, "You sound defeated, it's not like you. This procedure you undertook really hit you hard."

"You have no idea," Memnos muttered sullenly.

Persion sniffed, "Not intending to recommend messing about with the Furnace to the Chapter?"

"Oh I certainly plan to make a recommendation," Memnos countered, "Lesson one of extracting the Furnace is... Thou Shalt Not Extract The Furnace."

Persion was distracted as he saw a gaggle of mortals drift by, the Governor and an entourage. The wizened crone was trundling along in her life-support throne, followed by Viscount Proam, his daughter and her heirs. The boy looked blank-eyed and distant, as if his mind was hollow, but Otlie looked proud, bearing herself like a queen over her court. Surprisingly on the other side walked Fysk, the criminal overlord smugly talking to the rulers of his world like an equal.

Memnos glanced over and commented, "I see they crawled out of their bunker at last."

"Typical," Persion muttered, "They let others do all the fighting and then emerge to claim the credit once the dust has settled."

Memnos remarked, "The Viscount looks pleased, his daughter will still wed the heir and by the vapid looks of that boy she'll be running the planet in a year."

"I wouldn't count Otlie out," Persion commented, "She's already got the hearts and minds of the remaining PDF. They love her for fighting on the front line with them. Give her twenty years more experience and she'll be a power to be reckoned with."

Memnos frowned as he asked, "What's Fysk doing with them?"

Persion explained, "With the Genic council gone and the Arbites and Ecclesiarchy leaderless, this society is lacking in social order. Fysk's negotiating to take over law-enforcement when things calm down."

"A crime boss?" Memnos asked, "Running the law-keepers?"

"Who better?" Persion sniffed, "He knows who to watch and who's fingernails to pull out. The criminal-caste fears him more than they ever did the Arbites. Plus he said something about removing some form of birth control implant, with the Genic Council gone there's nobody left to organise reproductive matches."

Memnos mused, "So it seems changes will be coming to Pascum."

"Perhaps," Persion demurred, "Things have a way of levelling out. Give them three generations and this world will probably be exactly as it was when we arrived, minus the Genestealers."

Memnos pointed out, "I note they aren't coming over here to congratulate us."

"Good," Persion stated, "Let Toran do the diplomacy and the fancy speeches. I'm no good at that sort of thing. Give me a battlefield any day, one that I understand. I'm not cut out for grandiose gestures and heroic sagas. I'm better in the mud and dirt, not flashing my big red cloak and striking heroic poses as I swing a sword."

Memnos rubbed his neck and asked, "What are we going to do then?"

Persion drew in a breath and sighed, "Astropathic orders came in this morning, we are being recalled to Lujan II."

Memnos frowned as he protested, "But we're not done yet. We have Genestealers hiding in the undercity and a full-scale rebellion in progress planet-wide."

Persion held up a hand as he explained, "I have Zeax in the city, securing key facilities one by one. Jediah's hunting the traitor PDF officers and Gotram was dispatched to find Inquisitor Vevara. We can secure this city while we wait for relief. The Indomitus Crusade has sent reinforcements. Chapter Master Jaric Phoros is leading three hundred Fire Lords and five hundred Unnumbered Sons to suppress this rebellion and sweep out the Genestealer dregs. They should translate from the warp in a day or two."

Memnos cocked an eyebrow as he remarked, "Eight hundred Space Marines, they will crush this rebellion in days. Though I doubt much will be left standing once the Master of the Fire Lords is done, he does love incendiary bombardments."

Persion sniffed, "Not our problem. As soon as they secure orbit we are out of here. And look, here comes our stalwart Brothers."

Sure enough across the courtyard came four figures. Lieutenant Jediah, Sergeants Zeax and Gotram and oddly Inquisitor Vevara herself. They picked their way carefully through the piled dead, making their way over to Persion's position. Zeax looked satisfied with his work but Gotram looked troubled. Jediah looked like Jediah always did and Vevara was unreadable. The group marched up to Persion and nodded briskly, save Vevara who looked disdainful, even though she was surrounded by Transhumans nearly a foot taller than she was.

Persion started by asking Zeax, "Are the suburbs secure?"

Zeax replied, "All remaining Genestealers crushed or driven underground. The rebellious PDF troopers have surrendered. They seemed reluctant to fight when Deimos' Shadow floated into view. Say what you like about Repulsors, but all those guns are mighty intimidating."

"Would that we had two," Gotram muttered.

"Phobos' Light will be taken back to the Chapter's Forges," Persion explained, "In time she will fight again. Now Jediah, what of the Traitor officers? Does Clemas Bassail recant his Heresy and throw himself on the mercy of Terra?"

Jediah snorted, "Bit hard for him to do that since he's dead."

"Dead," Persion sighed, "Did you have to kill him without getting the names of his conspirators first?"

"Be at ease," Jediah countered, "His brain yielded everything we needed."

"You ate it?" Persion asked resignedly.

"Not I," Jediah corrected, "I had one of the Reivers eat it, and the other Traitor's too. There was more than enough to go round before we were done executing the turncoat officers."

"You get a brain, he gets a brain, everybody gets to eat a brain," Zeax muttered under his breath.

Persion ignored that and turned to Gotram inquiring, "What of the situation underground?"

Vevara answered for him, "The surviving cultists are retreating to the depths, many are trying to leave the city and flee into the hinterlands. The Inquisition has been informed, kill-teams are en route to burn them out. Rest assured the God-Emperor's Left Hand will find them, not one Genestealer will be alive on Pascum before the year is out."

Persion wasn't reassured and said, "Gotram… what aren't you telling me?"

Gotram sighed wearily, "We… we found Yones' body. He's dead."

Persion growled, "Damnation, I was just starting to like him."

"There's more," Gotram continued, "The way he died, it wasn't by shot or by claw. He was buried inside a stone column, physically fused to the atoms of its material. There's only one way I know to do that: he was teleported inside the stone. Deliberately."

Persion frowned as his mind processed the news, then facts slammed home. There was only one individual who had access to teleport technology on Pascum, one name that was absent from their accounts. The Eldar. The conclusion was inescapable, the Xeno scum had killed Yones and his master was standing right next to Persion.

"You!" Persion roared as he turned on Vevara, "You did this!"

Vevara glared up at him and retorted, "I did not."

Persion's anger flared and his hand flashed out, grabbing her by the shoulder. His grip tightened like a vice and Vevara's face crumpled in pain as her bones ground against each other. The outburst drew many eyes but Persion cared not. He increased the pressure slowly, drawing ever more pain from the Inquisitor as her other hand skittered off the Ceramite gauntlet.

Memnos leaned in and hissed, "Persion, people are watching."

"I don't care," Persion snapped, "She killed Yones."

"I…I did not," Vevara gasped through the pain.

"You expect me to believe that," Persion growled, "The Eldar worked for you, he was your agent."

"Ally," Vevara squawked in protest, "An untrustworthy one… he acted on his own… I gave no order."

"Then you are a fool," Persion barked as he increased the pressure of his grip, "Bringing an alien among us, letting it roam free. When will you Inquisitors learn that consorting with Xenos brings nothing but trouble?!"

Jediah cocked his head and quipped, "If you plan on killing an Inquisitor there are quicker ways. Try the jugular artery."

Persion glanced up and realised he was within an inch of breaking the woman in two. He would dearly have loved to extact vengeance for Yones, but killing an Inquisitor was no simple matter. There were repercussions for such a deed, terrible forces awaiting those who crossed that line. The Inquisition was a fractious and divided institution, but one thing they were united upon was that publically killing an Inquisitor would bring the wrath of Terra down not only on the killer but on their family, friends and world, even if that person were a Space Marine. If Persion killed her openly, before witnesses, then the Storm Heralds Chapter would be razed to the ground.

Persion reluctantly let go of the woman and she staggered back, grabbing her shoulder with a wince. Persion hissed, "I knew you were trouble. You Inquisitors are all alike, treacherous and deceiving. You're no better than any of them."

Vevara rubbed her shoulder and glared upwards as she spat, "The Warp Spider didn't only betray you, he betrayed me. I assure you this will not go unpunished. Wherever he goes, wherever he hides I will find him and end his miserable life. I knew he had his own agenda but I thought he was after a native of Pascum, someone in the government, which I was willing to overlook so long as the God-Emperor's sovereignty was upheld. I thought Manaar would reveal his intent in time, instead he used me to get to you and that is not something I can forgive. Craftworld Furta-Rith has made an enemy this day. Nobody uses me, not again."

Persion sneered, "Your pretty promises do not make up for the fact that you got our Brother killed."

Vevara's eyes narrowed as she countered, "Yones got himself killed. I heard him speak, he was too trusting, too soft. His death was the result of his own choices. These new Primaris need to learn the galaxy is not a stage for noble heroes to play out their glories. It is cruel and dark and hostile and only the most ruthless survive."

"Enough of your pontificating," Persion snapped, "Get out of my sight and if I ever see you again I will not be so lenient."

Vevara screwed up her lips, then turned and stalked off, not looking back once. Persion watched her go but he heard Memnos whisper, "Well done Brother."

His head turned fractionally and he said, "You approve of me laying hands on an Inquisitor?"

"You didn't kill her," Memnos stated, "You've learned something."

"I've learned I hate diplomacy," Persion sighed, "I can't wait for our relief to get here, so we can leave this miserable planet."

"Sooner the better," Memnos concurred, "I finally persuaded Brother Spika to sink into a healing coma. He will need an augmetic heart installed when we return to the Fortress-Monastery."

"No argument here," Zeax said, "I long for the blessed touch of the Emperor's Storm."

Gotram rubbed his brow and asked, "Do we really have to do that glitching ritual every single time the planet turns?"

"Yes," Jediah stated, "But first we need to get our team back into training, your education was rudely interrupted by this war."

"More training?!" Gotram yelped in dread.

Persion left them to it as he walked off. He strode through the remains of the battlefield and saw the results of his labours. The Storm Heralds had come within an inch of defeat but through the most outrageous combination of determination and fortune they had scraped victory from the jaws of defeat. Perhaps this was how it always was for officers he mused, maybe they always struggled to find the way through the darkest times. Yet he took comfort that in the heat of battle he had not been found wanting, he had proven he could lead Space Marines. But he was resolved as soon as they got home he was going to beg his captain to never send him on another diplomatic mission. As far as he was concerned battle was far less dangerous than politics.


	49. Chapter 49

**Speculum Enigmate Chapter 49**

The taskgroup broke warp in a flare of Unlight, translating from the nightmarish hell of the Empyrean into the blessed solidity of realspace. Sleek frigates rose from those haunted depths, their prows trailing gossamer filaments of impossibility. Behind them came slab-sided Strike cruisers of the Unnumbered Sons, accompanied by wallowing troop-ships, bulbous mass-conveyors, fuel barges and Forge Tenders. At the head of the fleet rode a mighty Battlebarge, covered in iconography of purifying flames and sinful souls writhing in torment. She was the Flame of Hades, flagship of the Fire Lords Chapter and all others followed as she turned her prow towards the tiny mote of the Pascum system's star.

Several hundred million kilometres away a vessel of a very different order was trudging through the void. She was no mighty warship, not even a bulky troopship or sleek frigate. This was a tiny minnow of the void, a system boat, pushing further into deep space than she had ever been intended to go. Her weary drives spluttered as they struggled to maintain thrust, pushing the vessel towards the orb of a cold dead planetoid. She had spent a week slogging towards this rock and she sank into the gravity well with one last gasp of thrust before her engines finally cut out.

Inside the vessel Manaar strode from the bridge with an eager step. Behind him the cooling corpse of the Mon-Keigh pilot lay, blood still gushing from the wound in his throat. Manaar had pushed the ape to keep the ship running but now they had arrived the pilot had no further use. Killing him hadn't even been an issue, bringing no joy or anger to the Aspect Warrior, it had been a task to be completed as swiftly as possible, nothing more.

He strode down the narrow passages of the system boat, sliding past blank-eyed servitors without them even noticing he was there. The cyborg slaves of the Imperium had not the intelligence to react to his presence, nor raise a hand against him so he ignored them, knowing their fates had been sealed long before he had stolen this vessel. Manaar hurriedly made his way to the small reactor room, where a decrepit plasma furnace struggled to keep the craft powered. Manaar stepped up to a control console covered in wax seals and yellowing parchment scripts and began to adjust the dials. Mon-Keigh technology was laughably simple to operate and it was a matter of a few minutes to disengage the safety protocols and set up a cascade overload. Power would build inexorably until the reactor tore itself apart, leaving only a cloud of atoms behind.

Manaar's tracks had been covered, now he needed to depart. He hastily made his way down to the bottom deck of the tiny craft, where the cargo bay lay. He moved into an airtight control booth and looked over the empty space. It was bare and unlovely, nothing more than a metal cube but it would serve for his purposes. A few deft button pushes began evacuating air from the bay, lacking even a basic atmospheric integrity shield the bay had to be completely depressurised to be opened. Manaar waited patiently as the vacuum stole the air, then when the cycle was completed he opened the exterior door to space.

From the star spackled black came a beautiful craft, an Eagle bomber, coasting into the bay. It seemed bizarre to see so elegant a craft coming aboard the crude boat, its sweeping wings barely fitting into the narrow confines of the bay. Manaar's heart soared to behold this example of his people's art and the promise of home. His artistic self longed for the graceful domes and sweeping vista of Furta-Rith, while his warrior side yearned to return to his shrine and resume the ways of the Path. After so long spent among Mon-Keigh brutes the peace of his craftworld seemed a paradise.

The craft settled down gracefully, then Manaar closed the exterior door and repressurised the bay. Atmosphere leaked slowly in, freezing on contact with the void-chilled Wraithbone of the bomber. A crust of ice formed over the Eldar craft but it soon melted as temperatures climbed and the air thickened. After several minutes the wheezing pumps stopped and Manaar set them to begin the cycle again in fifteen minutes. Then he stepped out of the booth and slid down a metal ladder to the floor.

When his boots touched the ground he heard a soft murmur and turned about to see Koshano awaiting him. The Farseer was standing at the side of the Eagle, hands laced before him in the Stance of a lord welcoming a conquering hero home with great approval. He seemed cool and stern, yet his greeting was one of welcome and his chin was lowered in humility. In the subtly of the Eldar tongue the warmth of his hail was plain. Manaar was not comforted, there was too much bad blood between father and son to ever be dispelled. He made the Salute of a soldier reporting to a superior, expecting brief and functional communication rather than florid gestures and long-winded discourse. A subtle snub, rebuffing their familial connection and proclaiming Manaar wished only to speak of recent events.

Koshano's hands moved in the Gesture of forlorn acceptance but he spoke aloud for the first time, "Your mission is complete?"

Manaar retorted gruffly, "You already knew that, else you would not be waiting for me."

"Yes," Koshano sighed, "Still, it is nice to hear the words."

Manaar tutted in exasperation but said, "The Mon-Keigh target is eliminated. Yones is dead."

Koshano lowered his head slightly and uttered, "Then the Skein is righted. You have achieved great things but I sense it cost you dearly. Your heart aches of loss."

Manaar sniffed, "It was nothing."

"No," Koshano whispered, "You formed attachments to your comrades, leaving them hurt you. A part of you wished to linger with them."

Something rattled behind the Warp Spider's mental walls, his feeble side protesting it was true, but aloud he said, "My heart is not for you to know."

Koshano's eyes filled with sadness as he elaborated, "Then it would not ease your burden to know your comrades survived. They defeated the spawn of the Great Devourer and imposed their Corpse-God's will upon that world. One of the least probable outcomes in the Skein but it was always a possibility."

A vice twisted Manaar's heart but he lied, "I care nothing for any Mon-Keigh. They are a lesser race, born to serve our ends. Their species is useful as a shield against the Dark Gods, nothing more."

Koshano tutted, "You lie poorly but let it be known you shall see them again and not as comrades. They have learned of your deeds and they seek vengeance. The Inquisitor will chase you across the stars, hounding your footsteps. Terrible losses shall you both experience and you shall be betrayed by one you trust absolutely."

"You and your riddles," Manaar scoffed, "Yet I was not the only one stung by loss. The Inquisitor must understand that you arranged all of this, she will have your head if she can but claim it. Your arrangement with her is at an end."

"A sacrifice that needed to be made," Koshano confessed, "A shame, it took me a long time to cultivate her trust. Feeding her titbits of information, assisting her to eliminate trivial threats to her race. I had to ensure she lowered her guard enough to allow you access."

Manaar probed, "Then this was all a scheme in the Skein. You weren't helping her out of charity?"

"Charity for a Mon-Keigh?!" Koshano laughed, "Hardly, I would sacrifice a billion Mon-Keigh for one Eldar life. Still our arrangement had its uses, some of those threats I steered her towards would have irritated the Eldar someday. Now her outrage will make her a potent enemy, Furta-Rith must tread carefully."

"So was it all worth it?" Manaar asked.

Koshano didn't answer, merely looking up at the Eagle as he said, "We should be making ready to depart."

Manaar's eyes narrowed under his helm as he pressed, "No, first you tell me what this was all about."

Koshano shook his head and deflected, "We need to leave before this vessel explodes."

Manaar gritted his teeth in annoyance and hissed, "I am not going anywhere until you explain why Yones had to die."

"You wouldn't understand," Koshano demurred.

"I am no blind Mon-Keigh," Manaar retorted, "Explain it to me, truthfully."

Koshano lowered his head in sadness then drew in a deep breath and said, "I told you of the Rhana Dandra and the games of Gods and Demi-Gods."

"You said the Corpse-God has revealed the first of His weapons who think they are sons," Manaar agreed.

Koshano nodded as he elaborated, "The Statesman. A rather banal choice, the Hunter of the Forest or the Eternal Guardian would have been my preference, but the Ultramarian tool was chosen instead and the fates aligned around him. Galactic wheels pivot upon this one weapon; the balance of Order and Chaos is measured by the beating of his hearts. Schemes to manipulate or eliminate him swirl in the Skein, the later growing more prominent with every hour. The Primordial Annihilator needs him removed from the gameboard, before the others like him return."

"Chaos seeks to eliminate the Corpse-God's most potent weapon," Manaar concluded, "How did Yones figure into this?"

Koshano explained, "The Cupbearer of Tzeentch offers a poisoned Chalice, but another stands opposed. The Least Favoured Son shall race to rescue his beloved father; little knowing the Statesman holds him lowest among his offspring. This confluence of probability was laid out long ago but an obstacle arose, a misplaced fulcrum upsetting the gradations of predestination, changing fate to an unwelcome future."

Manaar parsed this down into terms he could understand, "Yones stood in the way of another achieving his destiny. He was interfering in the Skein."

Koshano sighed, "Simply put but accurate. Not intentionally but Yones would have upset the delicate dance of events that we need to play out. His continued existence was intolerable, for Furta-Rith to survive, for the Eldar to survive, he had to die. The plot of the Primordial Annihilator must be thwarted."

Manaar accepted this and said, "You could have just told me this from the start."

Koshano sighed, "If I told you this you could not have done what needed to be done. You could not have formed the attachments you needed to reach your goal. This is why it had to be you, only you are divided between two paths, no other Aspect Warrior could have walked this Path."

Manaar frowned under his helm as a terrible thought occurred, "Wait… you foresaw this, you knew this was coming long ago. Is… is that why you allowed Mother to fall? Is this the reason you left our family, so I would be torn in my heart and could play my part in your scheme?"

Koshano didn't answer that, merely turning towards the Eagle saying, "This bay will depressurise in two minutes, the ship will explode ten minutes after that. If you wish to live you must come with me."

Manaar's anger grew and his phase-blades shimmered with wroth but he was impotent to act. Koshano was still his father and despite Manaar's violent aspect he could not stab his own father in the back. Still his soul filled with resentment, knowing he would never get an answer to the question and that the doubt would gnaw at him for the remainder of his days. This bitter feud was far from over but for now he had no choice but to follow.

Reluctantly Manaar climbed into the Eagle Bomber and sealed the cockpit closed. He began his preflight checks with practised motions, the bulk of his Aspect Armour no impediment. As the craft responded to his touch he clenched his hands and swore that when he returned to Furta-Rith he would seal himself in the Aspect Shrine and dedicate himself totally to his Path. Yet it was a hollow promise, he knew Koshano would entice him out again, pushing him around like a game piece. If the Farseer was right then he would be seeing Vevara, Eirk, Lumix and Mortula again someday and blood would be shed. His feeble half regretted it but his violent nature looked forward to that conflict. His pain could only be expressed through violence and he would remain on the Path of the Warrior for many years to come.

Then the bay began to depressurise and Manaar looked to the stars as he began the long journey home.


	50. Chapter 50

Speculum Enigmate Chapter 50

*_Planet Lujan II_*

The Fortress-Monastery of the Storm Heralds sat in the icy cold of night, the stars twinkling in a cloudless sky. Many of those motes of light were moving, for they were in fact ships breaking orbit. The vessels of many Chapters were departing Lujan II, Mortifactors, Howling Griffons, Praetors of Orpheus, NovaMarines, Smoke Jaguars, Red Hunters and more. Their business concluded they turned their prows towards deep space, thrusting away at top speed.

In the Fortress-Monastery the life of the Storm Heralds returned to normal. Endless preparations for war being enacted. Drills were run, recruits were selected and implanted, weapons were blessed and consecrated and rituals millennia old were performed. Many of the new Primaris inductees stumbled over the ritual phrases, still becoming accustomed to the traditions of their new Chapter. For their part the older Astartes eyed the taller warriors warily and their new war machines with suspicion, few among them having seen them in action yet. Despite the best efforts of the Masters, distrust and suspicion would mar the Chapter for many years to come, but at least they weren't shooting at each other.

Persion and Jediah watched this playing out as they walked through the boulevards of their home. To Persion it seemed odd how much his attitude had changed. In only a few weeks he had led both breeds of Transhuman to war, seen them fight and die and save each other's lives in the white heat of battle. Bonds had been forged and trust built, but the rest of the Chapter had yet to experience that. Strange, he thought, he had learned a great deal in a short time and the Marine who had returned to his home was not the same one who had left.

The squads sent to Pascum had made rapid progress through the Immaterium, the warp current that was the Saint Karyl Trail proving steady and swift as always. Over the passage of their journey they had laboured to hone their skill, practising manoeuvres they had learned and making what repairs they could. The squads had been in good humour but they had been saddened by loss. Brothers of both orders had been lost and their passing had been mourned. Yones' loss stung especially, and Persion swore once more to exact vengeance. He was sure a reckoning with his killer was inevitable.

Suddenly Jediah commented, "Looks like we missed something."

"Indeed," Persion replied eyeing the sweating labours of the serfs, "It seems the Feast of Blades was more eventful than expected."

Jediah didn't reply but Persion eyed him. The other Lieutenant had fought hard in the battles and it showed. Persion's plate had been battered and scored but Jediah's was wrecked. No amount of buffing and polishing could disguise the rents and tears marring its smooth surface and the loud growling of the Machine Spirit every time he took a step. The plate would surely require returning to the Forges for repair but Jediah had made a point of keeping his fan-blade, he seemed to like the razor-sharp implement.

As they walked Persion spied Brother Novak strolling towards them, his helm free to reveal his burnt features. Persion frowned as he saw the Champion's armour was almost as battered as his own and called out, "Novak, what happened? You look a mess."

"You can't talk," Novak retorted as he strolled nearer, "You look like you had a fight with a trash compacter and lost."

Persion paused to ask, "I feel like we missed something. What happened at the Feast of Blades?"

Novak sniffed, "Problems arose, were confronted and overcome. I'll tell you about it later."

Persion cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"I have to see Smyth about a thing," Novak said as he resumed walking, "Give my regards to the Chapter Master!"

Novak wandered off with a jaunty step and Persion muttered, "He seems more pleased with himself than usual."

Jediah merely grumbled, "Come, else we shall be late."

Persion sighed and they resumed their march. Swiftly they made their way through the towering buildings and hangers of the Fortress-Monastery. They walked under the silhouette of orbital defence lasers, which blotted out the stars with their bulk and soaring Templums, heavy with golden embellishments. They skirted the Librarian's Tower, giving it the traditional wide berth. They even crossed the path of a bunch of Neophytes marching before a mostly augmetic training instructor. They were following the golden footsteps of the 'Primarch's Walk', a new feature commemorating the tour Roboute Guilliman had taken of the Storm Herald's home. The shaven-headed youths walked in coarse robes, shivering in the cold night air as they gazed upon the sacred ground where their Gene-Father's feet had trod and mediated upon the path he had laid out for the Chapter.

Eventually their march brought them to the Chapter Master's Minaret and a pair of Honour Guards in their tradition eagle-winged helms waved them through. The Lieutenants stepped inside a grav-lift and were whooshed upwards, flying past level after level until they reached the summit of the tower. They alighted without a qualm, entering the Chapter Master's reception hall. This was the first time Persion had visited so lofty a place and he took in the room with a glance. A broad space was set out, with marble floors and arched armourglass windows looking over the Fortress-Monastery. The walls between were hung with banners, ponderous with the weight of history and marks of famous victories. Trophies of the Chapter's most notable kills were displayed on short pedestals, glimmering in the light of stasis fields. The Ork Warlord Nek'snappa's power Klaw, the spear of the Revenant Dauphin and Persion was pleased to note the head of Vorshaan the Dusk Prince was amongst the collection, his dead eyes staring eternally in despair. Then a pair of withered servitors, their mouths hanging wide to reveal rotten teeth, squawked mechanically to announce their arrival to the room.

Three Storm Heralds awaited the pair and Persion saw the tallest among them was First Captain Jemiel. The Primaris officer was magnificent in his pristine armour and he loomed over the room with a stern glower. The other was the far more welcome sight of Third Captain Toran, his red cloak torn and frayed in many places and fresh scars marred his armour. Persion wondered where he had acquired the damage but had no time to ask for the third soul demanded his attention. In a black throne sat Chapter Master Phalros the Pure, the ultimate authority in the Storm Heralds. His patrician features were set in an unreadable mask and his armour gleamed, from the Iron Halo over his head to the ponderous Power Fist on his right arm.

Persion and Jediah bowed deeply to their masters and the Lieutenant said, "My lords, we come as summoned."

"Rise," Phalros said graciously, "Brothers Persion and Jediah, we have been discussing your report. Your mission to Pascum turned out to be far more eventful than anticipated."

Jemiel glared as he said, "A simple diplomatic mission and somehow you two managed to start a war."

Persion should have been shamed by the rebuke but he'd had enough of soft talk, if he'd learned one thing it was he hated decorum and diplomacy. He drew in a breath and retorted, "The Genestealers started the war, we finished it."

Jemiel bristled at being talked back to but Toran intervened, "Indeed, we can hardly hold our Brother responsible for the enemy's actions. They conducted themselves magnificently and rose to the occasion, as I knew they would."

Jemiel's eyes narrowed as he snapped, "You coddle your Marines, ignoring their mistakes and errors. You play favourites with your old comrades."

Persion butted in to say, "The Captain is not at fault, if you have a rebuke you can say it to our faces."

Jemiel's lip curled as he snapped, "Impudent wretch."

Yet Jediah countered, "We're not novices you have to lead about by the nose. You can drop the good captain, bad captain routine."

There was a short snort of amusement from Phalros and he said, "Spoken like true warriors, bold and direct. Very well, Toran, Jemiel we can dispense with the pleasantries and get straight to business. Brother-Lieutenants, your mission reports make for troubling reading, much was irregular in your conduct and yet it is hard to argue with the results. We sent you to secure Aleys Bassail's rule and you did so. A Genestealer cult arose and was defeated, your duel with the Patriarch alone warrants commendation. Plus we learned several interesting things about our new Primaris paradigm."

Toran added, "Apothecary Memnos has sent copious records of his findings, the Apothecarion's understanding of the new Gene-seed type has grown. His warnings against interfering with the Furnace have been distributed to all Apothecarys."

Jemiel added, "The Pascum rebellion has been put down while you sailed. Jaric Phoros has scoured the planet and is eager to return to the Crusade. He sends Astropathic missives requesting Imperial Guard garrisons be sent to collect the Emergency Tithe."

Persion frowned as he asked, "The Tithe continues?"

Phalros nodded, "Indeed, the Administratum does not let little things like wars get in the way of their tax collections. The planet will be stripped for every coin it owes and the populace will lament their rebellion. All traitorous officers and officials have been executed and any common rebel who survived to surrender has been condemned to form a Penal Legion. They will repay the Emperor for their sins by dying in the glory of battle."

Jediah asked, "What of the Eldar knave?"

Toran stated, "If any Company crosses paths with this Warp Spider he will die, he is now an enemy of the Storm Heralds.

Persion protested, "I volunteer to lead a kill-team to hunt him down."

Jemiel however countered, "Sadly we have no leads to follow. We must let the Inquisition deal with him, we have concerns closer to home."

Phalros nodded, "Indeed, your conduct was unorthodox but victory is victory. To our surprise we find we must applaud your performance. You have earned your places, both of you."

Toran smiled broadly as he said, "Persion, I am pleased to award you the permanent rank of Lieutenant. You shall continue in the Third as a leader of Marines. We have a special reward, a treasured relic weapon…"

Persion lifted an augmetic hand and said, "Save it, I want no fancy toys or badges. Simply let me serve as a tactical officer and I will be content."

"Really?" Jemiel asked in surprise, "You turn down laurels?"

Persion smiled warmly and patted the Friction Axe on his hip as he said, "My axe served me well and I wish for no other weapon at my side. Let me wield it in battle and I shall count myself honoured enough."

"Surprisingly noble," Jemiel slowly remarked, "Perhaps I was wrong about you."

Toran concurred, "A kill-team leader you shall be. But Jediah, for you there is a special gift."

Jediah's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he said, "Why am I not filled with eagerness."

Toran grinned in amusement as he reassured, "Worry not, we merely recognise your unique contribution to the victory. You took a squad of Reivers and turned them into a disciplined and effective force."

"A first," Jemiel muttered, "I've never seen anyone manage that before."

Phalros took up the narrative and said, "It seems your skills are wasted in your current role. You have unique talents and a singular skill. Therefore we are proud to bestow upon you the rank of Vanguard Lieutenant."

"Vanguard?" Jediah asked warily.

Jemiel explained, "Taken from a rather obscure passage from the new Codex Imperialis. It builds on the idea of the Reiver squad to create a formation dedicated to covert operations, sabotage and assassination. A Vanguard formation is expected to range deep behind enemy lines, conducting wide-ranging campaigns of disruption and terror. You will be expected to get behind the line, raise hell and counter anything the enemy can throw at you."

Persion grinned as he remarked, "Sounds a perfect role for you Brother."

Jediah didn't smile but he did say, "I'll need more troops, one squad of Reivers won't be enough."

Toran wasn't put out as he explained, "A small selection of assets from Tenth Company will be attached to the Third, as a supporting force. We can work out the details later. But first we need to address your armour."

"My armour?" Jediah queried.

Phalros explained, "Mark VII plate is too cumbersome and noisy, your own reports show this to be true. The Codex Imperialis demands Vanguard forces employ Phobos plate, but that is only fit for Primaris. Thankfully we have an alternative."

A scuffling noise came from the grav-lift as a litter rose into sight, born by two servitors. Upon that bier was laid out a most curious suit of armour. To Persion's eye it looked like someone had tried to forge a suit that was half traditional armour, half scout plate. The breastplate and pauldrons were Mark V plate but the legs and abdomen were thinned down greatly. The helm was fronted by an angular sweep, almost like a cross between Mark VI and Mark III and the backpack was far more compact than usual. It had several features of Phobos armour added on and the Storm Herald's icon was on one pauldron while the other bore a chained skull.

"What is this?" Jediah asked.

Phalros explained, "Several millennia ago a disgraced Techmarine tried to forge what he called 'Mark IX' armour. It was a failure, as were most of his heretical inventions, but the armour was preserved as a curiosity."

Jemiel added, "Thankfully our Primaris Techmarines deemed it salvageable and used their superior knowledge to correct the errors in the design. You will find it far more suited to stealth operations than your current plate."

Perison wouldn't have trusted an untested Heretek invention but Jediah merely nodded as he stated, "It will do."

Toran smiled broadly and said, "Then use it well. You have made us proud, both of you."

Phalros added, "We shall be watching you with keen interest and I expect you to keep accumulating victories."

Persion got the message. The Chapter Master was willing to give him a chance but it was up to Persion to prove himself, if he screwed up there would be no favouritism for him. Persion's future rested in his hands, which suited him well, he wouldn't have it any other way. The Storm Heralds would need him to excel and he intended to live up to his new rank. Only one thing troubled him.

Persion faced his masters and proclaimed, "I shall not fail you, I intend to prove myself equal to the task. I shall prove my worth, no matter what stands against us. All I ask is one thing."

"What do you desire?" Phalros asked.

"Keep me at the sharp end of the battle," Persion answered, "I loathe diplomacy."

_*The adventure continues when the Storm Heralds return in Festum Gladius*_


	51. Chapter 51

_*Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story Incantator Congressus*_

**Somewhere, Somewhen**

Jubila was bored and that was never a good thing. Jubila didn't like to be bored, it was anathema to his nature. He was a connoisseur of delights and torment, an adventurer and explorer in realms of possible sensation. He had supped the tears of millions and danced to the screams of billions more, seeking ever more potent sensations in his quest for perfect experience. Being bored was not something he was accustomed to.

Jubila was standing on the balcony of a high tower, looking over a city. It was a beautiful sight, filled with worshipful citizens and the laughter of the cruel. Music rang over the streets, plucked from instruments wrought of human bone and sinew and people danced in the streets until they fell to the ground in rapturous orgies. Statues soared over the buildings, each ten stories tall and casting shadows over their neighbourhoods. In vast arenas chrono-gladiators fought with wild abandon, the implanted bombs in their hearts reversing their countdowns with each kill. Neither gladiator nor crowd knew how long each clock had left and the minutes added were random, creating a delightful frisson of tension as all waited for the next abrupt explosion of blood and gore. Beyond those rose defiled temples, where crowds of revellers sought ever more extreme sensations, whipping, cutting, feasting and partaking of drugs distilled from human cerebral matter. It was a magnificent example of the principles of the IIIrd Legion, the thrice-damned Emperor's Children and it was but one city on one world of the realm Jubila had conquered. And none of it excited him anymore.

Jubila stepped from his balcony and sighed in disappointment. His armour was a lurid purple, every inch covered in sickening images and vicious spikes, while delicate silks hung from his limbs. His face was powered and smooth and the skin on his head had been peeled back and secured with hammered nails to reveal the bone of his skull. A Charnabal sabre hung on one hip and the other bore a plasma pistol. He was simultaneously sickening to behold and irresistibly appealing. He was an Astartes taken to the most extreme edge of possibility, every facet of his being an exploration of excess and perversion.

Jubila cast his gaze over his personal quarters, seeing sculptures of living flesh in the corners and banners woven from the faces of weeping maidens hanging from a crystal roof. Various human and alien heads hung on chains around the perimeter and screams echoed through brass speaker grilles, the sounds of the torture chambers in the levels below echoing through his chambers at all times. In one corner a small Haemonculus lurked, the child-like being fused with a bolter that sang of joyous sorrows through a gnashing daemon-faced barrel.

Over it all a bulky form hung, muscled in the manner of the Astartes but not one of the IIIrd. This naked warrior was an Imperial lickspittle, a Smoke Jaguar assassin Jubila had caught trying to infiltrate his home. The son of Corax hung from spikes driven into his implant sockets, his lips sewn shut with razorwire and his eyelids removed so he could not turn from the sight awaiting him. Capturing this one had been one of Jubila's finest moments but even this brought him no joy anymore.

"I am bored," Jubila announced to the room.

From the shadows came a soft feminine voice, "Shall I summon your court?"

That was Rebre, a sorceress of Slaanesh. She was beautiful to behold, with long and lustrous black hair and ruby lips. Shapely legs were revealed by slits in her black gown and she had a plunging neckline that reached to her navel. Her physical beauty was enhanced by glamours of enticement and lust and mortal men would have drooled at the sight of her, committing any crime for her sake. Yet her allure was but a thin veil laid over something foul. Her lips revealed pointed fangs when she spoke, her nails were hooked talons and there was a cruel edge to her eyes, one that delighted in manipulation and cruelty. Rebre was Jubila's sorceress and mistress of revels, one who had come to his service in extraordinary times, replacing her Brother, a Space Marine of no little renown.

Jubila sighed, "No, I am in no mood for their bickering today."

"A musical performance then?" Rebre ventured, "We have some fresh K'nib prisoners and I know how you like to hear their screams."

"Not right now," Jubila stated, "They bring me no joy."

Rebre frowned her perfect brow as she asked, "Why are your humours so melancholic?"

Jubila turned and swept his arm over the vista as he explained, "Look at what I have wrought, my conquests and domains. I laid waste to the defenders, overthrew the governors and stole these world from the False Emperor's grip. Heady days but look at it now. worshippers and revellers, statues and temples, an exercise in empty vanity and narcissism."

Rebre grinned slightly as she remarked, "I thought you liked vanity."

"Of course I do," Jubila retorted, "But this is not a monument to my glory but my Primarch's. Look at the statues, they are not of me but of Fulgrim. The songs the people sing are not to my glory but his, even the chrono-gladiators Dedicate their kills not to me but to him. Even the name of my kingdom is a testament to his ego, 'The Fulgrimite Principality'. All done in his name and he does not even deign to visit us."

Rebre sounded concerned as she objected, "The Lord Fulgrim snatched you from the jaws of death, he brought me back from the void and cast my Brother into the realms of nothingness. You cannot seek to challenge him."

Jubila laughed, "Challenge him?! I am not suicidal enough for that. But he promised me glorious experiences, sensations beyond anything the material universe has known. At first it was fun, conquest, subjugation, conversion, a cavalcade of delights. But then nothing but humdrum governorship. Conquest is exhilarating but rulership is dull, dull, dull. I mean, how long has it been since I killed someone with my own hands?!"

Rebre made a show of pursing her lips and answered, "About… thirty-five minutes."

"Half an hour!" Jubila exclaimed in mock horror, "That won't do! Slave, bring me a spear!"

From a stairwell a mortal woman with a crown of thorns buried in her brow danced into the room. She carried a spear as long as she was tall and so heavy she struggled to lift it, let alone dance. Yet she painfully gambolled and skipped, capering with every step. Jubila knew the mortal had no choice, the thorns driven into her skull were of his own design and they compelled his slaves to dance for his pleasure. The first step the mortal took that was not dancing would cause debilitating agony, the second would grip her heart in a vice of pain and the third would explode her head. So she danced, even though her limbs were withered and emancipated from exhaustion and her life could not last more than another week or two.

Jubila cared not, he had already lost interest in the fates of his slaves. He snatched up the spear and examined the tip then, drove it into the floor. He stepped back as the slave danced away and Rebre asked, "What are you doing?"

"Desperate times requires desperate measures," Jubila replied as he strode over to the chains suspending the Smoke Jaguar and snapped them with a sweep of his spiked gauntlet.

The chains rattled and clattered as the Space Marine dropped, hitting the floor hard. Instantly he was on his feet, snapping away the spikes in his implant sockets and snatching up the spear. He took up a defensive stance, his sown lips grimacing in threat as he eyed his captors warily. Jubila faced the Smoke Jaguar and declared, "You suspect a trap, but it is not. You came here to kill me and I am bored. So let us explore the possibility that you ever had a chance. Take the spear and try to kill me, to make it interesting I won't even use my sword…"

Suddenly the Smoke Jaguar moved, leaping at the warlord with the spear thrusting out before him. His lidless eyes were filled with self-righteous zeal and his sown lips growled an unspoken threat. His thrust was swift and sure and had it made contact it would have plunged into Jubila's hearts, but it did not. The warlord watched the speartip flash for his chest then at the last moment he stepped aside. Jubila moved like liquid lightning, avoiding the killing thrust and letting it pass by harmlessly.

The Smoke Jaguar recovered instantly, swinging around with the haft, trying to knock Jubila over. The Warlord merely lifted his left arm and blocked the attack only to be surprised when a fist crashed into his face. His head rocked back and he tasted his own blood as his lip was cut on his teeth. He stepped back and blinked in surprise, feeling a mote of excitement stir within him. He was actually enjoying this and he cried, "Wonderful, encore, encore."

The Smoke Jaguar swung his spear about and thrust again but Jubila smiled as he quipped, "Sorry, but one hit is all you get." His limbs blurred as his right hand flashed out, catching the spear behind its head. The Smoke Jaguar froze in shock only to be yanked forward by a powerful pull. Then Jubila's left fist struck, driving the pointed spikes of his gauntlet across the Astartes' throat and severing his jugular arteries. The Smoke Jaguar collapsed, spraying blood in a widening puddle around his body as Jubila stepped back and licked the blood off his spikes.

Rebre tutted, "Are you satisfied?"

Jubila sniffed, "It's a start, now bring me a hundred slaves and so I can…"

Yet Rebre's looked concerned as she bleated, "Jubila… look!"

The warlord spun about and his eyes widened as he beheld the pool of blood bubbling and congealing. It was no longer spreading but drawing together, pulsing upwards as it was drawn into a solid shape. From the blood rose a head and broad shoulders, mounted by broad wings. The blood took on the form of scraps of armour, set over a muscled chest and four arms. It was made of blood but it moved like a living thing and it rose to Jubila's height as it gargled, "Worm."

Jubila smiled mockingly as he replied, "Ozymandias, Daemon-Prince puppet and mouthpiece of the Dark Gods."

Ozymandias' blood eyes narrowed as he snarled, "Show respect you wretch, I bring you the word of Fulgrim!"

Jubila wasn't impressed and retorted, "What's this, a sending? Can't my former Captain even manifest fully, I am sad to see a lord of the IIIrd Legion sink so low as to resort to crude far-castings."

Ozymandias growled, "I am not here to banter words with you. I bring you a mission, Lord Fulgrim has a task for you."

Jubila yawned mockingly, "I'll Pass."

Ozymandias snapped, "You dare defy the Primarch?!"

Even Rebre cautioned, "Jubila, choose your words carefully."

Jubila sniffed, "If Fulgrim has a mission for me he can tell me himself, I don't answer to puppets like this."

Ozymandias snapped, "You are a base cur, lacking in imagination and vision. One day Fulgrim will bore of you and give you unto my clutches and then you will suffer as no other has suffered!"

Jubila grinned as he replied, "I doubt it, he likes me more than he likes you."

"Fulgrim only likes Fulgrim," Ozymandias retorted, "You are nothing special. When our Primarch has finished humiliating his martinet quill-pushing Brother he will come for you."

"Wait," Jubila said, "Fulgrim moves against the Lord of Ultramar? well why didn't you open with that? I'm in."

Ozymandias sneered, "You have the attention span of a Grot."

Jubila sighed, "Just tell me the plan."

Ozymandias feigned a breath then elaborated, "Our Primarch sees a chance to humiliate his rivals. An artefact of the Ultramarian blowhard has been uncovered and the False Emperor's minions and the Daemons of Tzeentch fight to claim it. Fulgrim intends to snatch it from both their hands and take it for his own. You are to travel to the Saint Karyl Trail and seize this artefact for the glory of Slaanesh."

Jubila frowned as he asked, "Why does Tzeentch want it?"

"Entropy knows," Ozymandias scoffed, "Some tiny part of a grand and convoluted scheme no doubt. The point is we can give the God of Change a bloody nose and knock the Ultramarian martinet off his high pedestal at the same time."

"I shall gather my fleet and set off this very day," Jubila declared.

Yet Ozymandias cautioned, "Travel with subtly and cunning, this will not be a war of conquest but of sly manoeuvre. I shall travel ahead and prepare the way. Bring your soldiers and your Daemons, you will need them."

"Of course," Jubila agreed.

Ozymandias glared one last time then said, "Make sure not to fail, the Lord Fulgrim is not forgiving of failures."

"You worry about yourself," Jubila snapped, "I know what I'm doing."

Ozymandias didn't reply, merely letting his casting go and the blood avatar fell apart in a shower of gore. Jubila watched him depart then declared, "Summon my armies, ready the summoning circles, we have a mission!"

Rebre pursed her lips as she said, "I think we need to know more before we set off. What is this artefact, why does everybody want it?"

"We'll figure out the details on the way," Jubila scoffed, "I can't wait any longer. Finally, true entertainment. This is going to be spectacular!"


End file.
